


A Useful Arrangement

by ten10texas



Category: Immortals After Dark - Kresley Cole, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-03
Updated: 2019-06-21
Packaged: 2019-07-06 01:36:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 27
Words: 171,402
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15875814
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ten10texas/pseuds/ten10texas
Summary: Thranduil meets a young part-elf from another realm with powerful useful abilities. They make a bargain for her service for a year, both interested in the benefits the arrangement offers them. An uncomfortable attraction blooms between them, something Thranduil especially does not welcome.





	1. Long Relatively Boring Author's Note

Author's note for any Tolkein purists or just interested parties:

 

I am writing a blend of the Elvenking from The Hobbit and Thranduil from The Hobbit series of movies. He has some of Jackson's darkness and plenty of pride to him, but also some of the merriness and all of the devotion to his people we see in The Hobbit book. My main complaint about Jackson's movies is that the elves lack the merriness and even silliness that they sometimes have in Tolkien's works. They are by and large a happy people, though they can grow weary of life with great age. In this fic you can expect about as much canon-compliance as you get with the movies—some, but not all, especially regarding beefing up female roles. Oh, and I'm not using umlauts on names—I hate them.

 

Thranduil in the books is actually a truly _**good**_ king who enjoys strong wine and feasts. He and his people are a bit wilder than Elrond's folk, but far FAR less grim and threatening than they are depicted in the movie, especially Thranduil. There is also no division between the Sindarin and Silvan that would prevent one of them from marrying the other, no conflict between he and Legolas, and no, “I'll sacrifice a bunch of my people for jewelry,” BS either. Thranduil voluntarily helps Dale, refuses to fight for gold, the list goes on—he's a good king. He also probably has a perfectly lovely living wife since Tolkien didn't mention women unless they were main characters or something awful happened to them like Elrond's wife Celebrian. But I'm killing Thranduil's wife off and making her a bit awful because story. 

 

The movie Thranduil is more like Thingol or even quite a few of the Noldor who were often giant mega-assholes led by the king anus of Craptown himself, Feanor. There's a darkness to him that reminds me of the elves from the Silmarillion who were sometimes pretty evil. Eol is probably the ultimate evil elf example, a rapist murderer elf, arguably the worst of the bunch though the ill-fated Oath of Feanor resulted in a much higher body count. Regardless, there is the full range of options for elvish character in the canon, including frankly evil.

 

Regarding canon, Tolkein actually ret-conned quite a few things himself, gradually making the elves more and more perfect over time and going back to tweak his stories to make the really awful bits less awful, like Eol changing from a full-on rapist to a kidnapper who gradually wears Aredhel down until she's not _**entirely**_ unwilling. That's just as gross and still just as much rape. But I digress. Anyways, there's pretty often more than one version of a story as Tolkien went back and changed things as the fancy hit him.

 

On sexuality, I find Tolkien's idea of sex creating a marriage bond to be unlikely, but I'm interested in writing the dynamic. Still, I suspect that like many people who believe that sex creates a bond and follow the no sex before marriage thing, there will be some _**fine**_ line drawing by the elves about what precise act creates that bond. I'm rolling with penetrative sex as the marriage act as it leaves me some room as a writer but includes the constraint of, “This far but no farther.” I feel pretty sure some Tolkien fans some may find this offensive and cutting the line of any sort of canon-compliance rather close, but it's exactly the kind of line drawing that religion tends to create and given that it isn't spelled out, I'll cut my line closer to pleasure.

 

People like to feel good, and it's always seemed weird to me that the elves are such passionate people—read the Silmarillion--but that sex is something they are, “Meh,” about for most of their lives, that once they have kids they become disinterested. Seems unlikely, especially since they can easily control procreation. They like wine, dance, song, literally every other pleasure of the body but not sex? That sounds more like the writer's religious/sexual hang-ups than the reality of elves' lives. I think it more likely that courtship included some fooling around and once married, assuming it was a happy marriage, elves had sex with their partner and enjoyed it throughout their long lives. If it was an unhappy marriage, which did sometimes happen in canon, I think it likely that a lack of sex would be part of that unhappiness. This is all fiction, but I figured since lots of fanfiction has them as either Mirkwood Porno-land or as, “Oh, that I might dare to touch her hand,” it might be fun to chart a middle course.

 

Zaile is my creation but the world she comes from is the creation of Kresley Cole, the excellent romance series Immortals after Dark. It's good smut with some good fantasy world building for a romance series. I very much recommend it. I had Zaile be part elf from Tolkien's world because story and also to give her a less aggressive sexuality than most of the other immortals in Cole's world. Some familiarity with the standards of Thranduil's realm and the blood connection as a partial elf would make it easier for her to adapt and easier for the elves to see her as a far flung cousin. The Mirkwood elves have reasonable trust issues and don't like strangers, so I'd need to crack that barrier fairly quick unless I wanted her to start off in the dungeon. I hope I did an effective believable job.

 

I've wanted to write a Thranduil romance fic for a few months, but have not been sure how to approach it. (I'm not going to lie and play coy—I like me some hot male elf fanfic and I aim to write another one. Sue me.) I think that as a 7,000 yro king devoted to his people in the midst of a long protracted war he would have little time or interest in romance, so what could realistically spark his interest? It would need to be a lot more than beauty—that's frankly just the normal state of elves and after about 7,000 years of life he'd have seen rather a _**lot**_ of it. I think the initial attraction would need to be someone he saw as significantly useful to his people and able to expand his own power and wealth. That requires my female OC to have quite a lot of power, power useful to his particular challenges as king of Mirkwood. I refuse to slash him with Galadriel or Elrond, plus they have their own realms to run, and the idea of some random powerful elf running around but never having been heard of just doesn't work for me. That's the main reason for this crossover—an OC with power and immortality. I frankly think that after 7,000 years that it would need to be something new to catch his probably somewhat jaded and weary attention. So, this crossover seemed to fit the bill. I hope you enjoy it. I will switch between Zaile and Thranduil's POV mostly because I enjoy that shift and like writing from different POVs.

 


	2. Where the Hell Am I?

Zaile ran through the portal she cast and hoped it shut behind her like it was supposed to and that Spade, her cat familiar, got through with her. She still had a lot to learn at fifty two—young for an immortal--and while she had a fair grip on her powers, conjuring wasn't her strongest talent. Yet. That one took more study than the others, at least for her, and the spell books she'd just photographed would certainly help. It's not like she stole the books (ok they were warded against theft, but whatever), and if the warlock hadn't decide to do a little middle of the night studying he'd have been none the wiser. She'd needed information to fulfill a quest she'd accepted to help another, though to be honest the spell books had been a, _**well, since I'm in the neighborhood**_ kinda thing. Thankfully, the warlock hadn't recognized her. That glamour was tight, one of her own creation and she'd had years of daily practice with it as an immortal working among humans—she used it to look a normal level of attractiveness and to age appropriately in her job as a college professor. But all that practice meant that if she got out of here, she'd totally get away with the information.

 

All she'd asked for in the portal was a plane the warlock didn't know about, one that moved slower than hers or the same in time, and one she could survive, some place with air, water, food, and a level of violence she could manage even at the low end of her powers. She'd enjoy some months of quiet study and then head back to Andoain in time for Mardi Gras. This sabbatical had been necessary to help her friend Artemis, but she'd certainly enjoyed it. Still, she looked forward to returning to the classroom

and her formerly quiet life, if possible. She was going to try. Unlike most of her fellow witches, she enjoyed the intellectual world of humans as well as the more arcane study she did as part of her coven. These images would be a huge prize for the coven library, assuming she managed to get the knowledge home. She turned and saw the portal snap shut in the strangely smiling face of the warlock, his spell never reaching her, and turned with a smirk to realize she'd landed in the middle of an attack. It was also damned cold here.

 

Some huge ass spiders were crawling towards a stone dwelling half built into a huge tree. The tree was swarming with them, and they were crawling down to peer in the small windows and hiss. She hated spiders and was at half power--plenty for this lot. But, maybe the spiders weren't enemies? They could be pets—some witches had spiders as familiars after all. Still, these felt wrong, unnatural and evil.

 

“Hey, are those your spiders? Are you in danger?” She amplified her voice with a spell so anyone in the house could hear here.

 

A young fey girl looked out the window and the terrified look on her face as she saw the spider looking in answered that question. The spiders also heard her shout and rolled towards her like a vile wave. Awesome.

 

She should walk away. But she just couldn't seem to turn away when kids or the innocent and helpless were being abused. It was a problem for her coven--witches didn't work for free, period. It was a coven rule and one of the central tenants of being a witch. Zaile was ¼ fey on her father's side but the rest was witch. The witches claimed her fey side was what made her so willing to work for free, that caused that sense of stupid nobility she had. That was probably true. Though all the witches indulged in altruism occasionally, Zaile knew she was by far the worst. Which is why one of her names was Zaile the Soft-Hearted. It wasn't a compliment. The other name, acquired in the last four months, was Zaile the Storm-Hearted. That one was, and she frankly hated it.

 

She'd signed up to back her demon best friend, Artemis, in her ascent to the nobility of her plane. When word spread, everyone had tried to talk her out of it, her family had even begged until she told them she had vowed to the Lore. Her fey grandmother and cousin the king had been furious when they learned she had sworn an oath and even left their realm so they could join the Greek chorus of lamentation and berating by her coven and the other side of her family. It was ridiculous.

 

“How many times have we told you that oaths are to be avoided at any cost, any cost!” Her grandmother Irime paced as her far older cousin Maglor stared grimly at her, his gray eyes glinting with rage. He finally sighed, and seemed to settle in to something like acceptance as Irime continued ranting.

 

Finally, he said, “You are as much a fool as I in my youth, and as such do not understand the way an oath can bind you to go where you would not and do what you would not. Tell me, specifically, what you swore.”

 

“I swore the standard Hero's Companion oath.” Duh. She was not the fool they thought her.

 

“No more? Only that? And you specified the circumstances and the time limit?”

 

“Yes, the exact oath. It was required if I were to support her.”

 

He glared briefly and said, “Anything that requires an oath is a fool's choice. Your friend abuses your friendship.”

 

There was little she could say to that. It wasn't accurate, but they wouldn't listen, not about oaths. They had told her horror stories regarding oaths, about some stupid war over some stupid jewels, but it was a common practice in the lore. Whatever, it was done now. Then everyone nagged her to practice, but she'd already been practicing nightly for months with Artemis in a realm that had a constant full moon. Zaile's powers were moon-bound, meaning they waxed and waned with the moon. Every full moon she was full of power, enough to be easily classed as a Queen. But as soon as she used it, her power regenerated only to the level of the moon's phase with the new moon being the nadir. At the new moon, she had only the qualities she had inherited from her fey grandmother—strength, speed, agility, accuracy, and foresight. It was as if she waxed and waned between the two natures—fey and witch, though she was a powerful witch while middling as a fey warrior due to her youth and relative inexperience. The only thing she excelled at as a fey so far was agility, probably due to her relatively small size compared to the average fey.

 

She'd kept this flux of her powers a secret from all but Artemis and her closest family by never displaying the full extent of her powers. Soft-hearted actually fit her—she was far more inclined to heal than to hurt, and did not feel the same lust for battle most of the Lore did. Her grandmother claimed this was normal, and because she favored her side of the family. But aside from her grandmother's branch of the fey, well, the fey were just as bloodthirsty and violent as the rest of the Lore. Her grandmother's people _**looked**_ like the rest of the fey, but they mostly didn't act like them. They were healers and artisans first, though viciously effective in battle if forced or provoked to it.

 

The other demons, and frankly most of the Lore, had laughed when Artemis announced her as Hero's Companion. In betting they were the pair with the absolute worst odds. Zaile knew, because she and Artemis had placed large bets on themselves. They were both quite wealthy now, but at the time had been utter laughingstocks.

 

“Zaile the Soft-Hearted? Will she hug your enemies to death? Maybe save some human's kitten from a tree for free? Maybe she can help your garden grow some pretty flowers to place on your barrow?”

 

“It's not as if Artemis had better choices. Last time her clan had to send two of their own as no one outside of the clan would serve as Companion—no money, no power, so who would make such a choice? Only Zaile the Soft-Hearted. At least she is less shameful than no true Companion at all.”

 

On the day of the competition, it was worse. The only living beings in this rocky place were the 500 heroes and their companions. They would fight until only one hero was left. The Companions were not required to fight past the death of their hero and could leave the competition if they survived it. Disgraced, but alive, most took the option. It was hard to find a Companion who was willing to truly give their life for yours. Most were mercenaries hired by the clans for appearances, and they chose their weakest member as hero if they did not have a likely winner to field—politics. Artemis' clan held to the old ways—pure chance. Each adult clan member had an equal chance to draw the red chip from the bag and be named as contestant. The competitors fought for the right to be in line for the throne and receive the power of a noble, usually filling some gap in the nobility created by war. Only one demon could ascend per competition—it kept the nobility to a manageable size and ensured only the strongest demons with the strongest allies could potentially rule.

 

Zaile remembered the cruel taunting of the other contestants and Companions, nearly all male.

 

“A waste of a beautiful witch that so far no one's had. I'd tap that.”

 

“The demoness is more to my liking. Perhaps a little fun before we end them?”

 

“Yes, easy prey.”

 

And plenty more and worse. Artemis had ignored them, as had Zaile. Both knew what was coming, and frankly the cruel taunting made it easier.

 

When Artemis first grimly told her of having bad luck to be the one to attempt to ascend, Zaile had replied, “Doesn't the plane they use for the battle have three moons? What date is it?” They realized the date of the battle was the same date as a congruence of three full moons. Zaile offered her help, and Artemis reluctantly accepted.

 

“Are you certain? You hate violence.”

 

“Yep. But I like having you around more.” She'd eventually have to kill, that was a virtual guarantee in the Lore, and Artemis was her best friend.

 

Zaile unleashed a storm that stretched from horizon to horizon, something like a tornado but far larger and more violent. She wiped the war plane clean of all but her and Artemis, mountains leveled, valleys filled, just a sheet of flat rubble once the wind died. Normally the battles raged for weeks, but her storm eliminated the competition within a single day—even an immortal can't survive being ripped limb from limb by a tornado that covers the _**entire realm**_. The few who might have been able to survive and reform, she dumped into the lava fields. All gone, not even bodies to bury. She hadn't had the control to just kill the Heroes, it had been like unleashing a pack of ravenous dragons and trying to guide them who to eat—impossible.

 

She still had nightmares, but at least her friend was alive. They were both individually wealthy—no more relying on her family or coven--and as Hero's Companion to the winner she had been given the Reward—an artifact of great power. This year, it had been the Shield of Melos. This artifact was ancient, but had not been seen for many millenia. It simply appeared in the temple as the reward for the year. Magic. It was rumored to protect the wearer from all harm, or to protect the wearer when they were unable to protect themselves—the effects were partially lost to history. Zaile had worn it for four months now and while it was beautiful, she still wasn't sure what exactly it did besides protect her while she slept. Some of the families of the Companions had been angry that she killed them as well at the Heroes and sent assassins to kill her. Most of them her coven had taken care of before they ever reached her, but four times she'd woken to a dead assassin in her room. They'd looked like they were asleep, until she touched them and found them cold. At least it looked to be a peaceful easy death.

 

Which is when she got her third name—Zaile Deathbringer. She _**really**_ hated that one.

 

Word got around though, and she was now no longer a target, at least for assassins. But she was suddenly in demand as a potential wife, with her grandmother regularly contacted regarding alliance with other realms. The fey realms were especially interested, which was ironic as they has been the biggest assholes when she was thought to be powerless. Ugh. And a week did not go by without an invitation to some quest or an appeal to come to the aid of some realm. _**“My lady, your kind heart surely will lead you...”**_ Lead me to get involved in your political mess and/or war? Fish your ass out a self-created nightmare? Not likely. Soft-hearted, not soft-headed. She'd done one so far, a genuinely noble quest, and this portal into the sorcerer's lair was part of a second. But she was cutting it off after this—she deserves a life too and fighting others' bloody battles wasn't her idea of any kind of life.

 

The whole thing sucked. Artemis was happy to have risen in power and favor, and enjoyed the attention a great deal, especially the opportunity to attempt multiple males to find her mate. But Zaile had liked her life before, quiet and below the radar. She had zero hurry to acquire a mate and very much enjoyed her freedom. Hopefully, things would calm down soon and she could return to her peaceful life. Hopefully.

 

A peaceful life certainly wasn't on the agenda for today--the spiders were booking it across the leafy forest floor towards her. They seemed to be emerging from the darkest forest she'd ever seen, though this clearing was beautiful and filled with light. Despite the spiders, this place felt strangely like home, like her grandmother's realm but even more so. Weird. Whatever, she had spiders to kill. Batter up, attercops. She slung her pack off, rubbed her palms together and directed a beam of energy to the first spider—boom, it imploded. Tidier that way, and more impressive—it took far more control that simply blowing shit up. Next, next, next, she could do this all day. Or so she thought until they began to flank her and it was just really a _**lot**_ of spiders.

 

No worries. She would cast a protection circle. As she attempted the cast, one of them jumped and she had to blast it in mid-air. Nothing fancy, it exploded into legs and goo. But that jumping made her task harder, and the only cover was trees which provided no cover at all from things that could climb and jump. It was going to get real. She'd killed eleven so far and while she wasn't tired, there seemed a limitless supply of them emerging from the forest and trying to get in the house or to get to her.

 

Turn, blast, turn blast, turn blast, she seemed to find a rhythm and finally the spiders began to retreat. After a few moments, they melted back into the trees and she stood breathing hard. That was better than Soulcycle any day. It was a mess, though, damn. She waved her hand and all the bits collected themselves into a pile. She set it ablaze with a containment spell to make sure it didn't spread to the trees then surveyed the area around her.

 

This plane was completely unknown to her, at least this part. One of the fey, a child, emerged from the house and called out to her. She didn't recognize the language at all, but the beckoning hand was certainly clear. She grabbed her pack and headed to the house. It didn't feel like a trick. She stepped into the house, more of a manor really, and saw an adult female fey flat on some sort of elegant low wooden bench, struggling for air and holding her blackened distended neck. There was another small child holding the adult's hand and crying. This was likely their mother. She probably had enough power to heal the her, but she'd have to eat, sleep, and recharge after this. She cast a spell for universal communication and hoped this obscure plane would be included.

 

“Please, please help our mother, traveler, if you can.” Thank great Hecate.

 

“I will, but after I will need to sleep and eat. Will this house be safe against those things, will I be safe while I rest?”

 

The little fey looked up at her, “Yes, I promise.”

 

A child's promise. She was a fool to take that but she couldn't refuse that adorable pleading look. Plus, her amulet would protect her while she slept if they tried to hurt her.

 

Zaile walked around to the female and laid her hands on the bite. This was a virulent poison, she could feel it. It would be touch and go if she could heal it after the power she had already expended. She began to chant over her and was lost in her healing trance, feeling and healing the path the poison had taken as she drew it out of the female's body. There was some disruption, but she ignored it—deep in the healing trance. And then she felt another join her, the healer using methods she didn't recognize but effective. A very masculine power, strangely attractive, lively and fairly strong, but old, very old, and a little dark mixed in with the light. Huh. So some old guy had come to help, perhaps the children's grandfather? That would be good. Finally, with a sigh she felt the last of the poison drain, closed the wound with a stitching motion of her hand and gathered the poison into a ball and flung it into the fire to burn and send the smoke up the flue.

 

She was so tired she could no longer stand, so she laid down on the floor and hoped the grandfather honored the child's promise for food and lodging. Her amulet would protect her from mortal danger, but she really didn't want to wake up in the woods surrounded by spiders if they dragged her out of the house. She also wasn't sure how the amulet would perceive that, though so far only those definitely intending her death had anything to fear. The mother would live and she was so tired, so exhausted the only thing she could do now was sleep regardless of how stubbornly that stupid grandfather kept trying to talk to her. She curled up on the floor next to the bench and fell asleep immediately.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Since his son Legolas left, Thranduil had taken a more active role in guarding their lands. Tauriel was competent, as were his other captains, but without his son's presence it seemed wise to monitor his lands with his own eyes from time to time. These patrols had convinced him that Tauriel's original impression had been right—it would be impossible to eradicate the spiders without eradicating their source. He had continued to consider it after he denied her request, though wisely he had stayed his hand—it was easier to start a battle than to end one, a lesson his son and Tauriel would no doubt eventually learn to their sorrow.

 

After the battle at Erebor, when they understood who was responsible for the shadow creeping over their wood, even Tauriel recognized the foolishness of a direct assault on Dol Guldur. They were not fighting some human Necromancer, but rather faced Sauron. Their best option was to hold the Enemy to the land he had already claimed as opposed fighting to fully regain control of the Greenwood. That would take war, and a greater host than he could hope to mount alone. It would result in less loss of life to hold and protect the lands they had, making it too costly a prize for the Enemy to take. Had he listened to Tauriel, he would have brought down the full wrath of the Enemy on his people alone—a fight they would have been sure to lose. She now saw the wisdom of that decision, which had helped to heal the breach between them.

 

He was no fool, he knew the true source of the breach--his cold refusal of her as a suitable mate for his son. In truth he did not much care that she was Silvan, but he did care that she did not love his son. At first, he had thought Tauriel harbored similar political ambitions as his former wife. His refusal was something of a test. To rise and become queen, she would need him to accept her publicly as his son's wife. She could marry Legolas, but without Thranduil's acceptance she would never be anything more than wife and her children would not be considered in line for the throne. If she truly loved Legolas, she would not care one bit about such things—Legolas certainly did not. When she hesitated in the face of his disapproval, he knew she did not love his son and thought her motivated by ambition.

 

However, her choice of the dwarf had made it clear she was innocent of such duplicitous motives. Foolish, but innocent. It also verified what he had already known—she cared for Legolas as a close companion but did not love him as a mate. His son loved her as a mate, desired her, and certainly would have married her. Had he done so, he would have had something similar to the sort of alliance Thranduil had with his former wife—she had been somewhat fond of him, but what little desire she had for him disappeared after the birth of their first child. Thranduil now knew she had felt her duty was done and had never truly desired him—she had married him to be a queen.

 

He had loved his wife unreservedly, desired her so greatly he had been blind and perceived her lack of desire as concern for the proprieties. A prideful fool—he knew his effect on most females and assumed she would bloom with desire after they married, had enjoyed what he so foolishly thought was a chase. He should have known that her reticence to be touched by him was more than maidenly reserve—no other he had courted or who had courted him had recoiled from a mere kiss. His former wife had been a companion of sorts, a good co-ruler, a good mother, but Thranduil now knew with certainty she had married him without love. He would not see his son trapped in a similarly unsatisfying alliance.

 

The only indication of her regard for him had come close to her death. Unknown to him, she had gathered a variety of white gems from the mountains and caves around the Halls. She knew his love of jewelry, and his desire to see his kingdom and people as wealthy as the elves of old. Wealth offered protection as well as the power to beautify his kingdom and help his people. She presented him with a box filled with gems of his land, and smiled at his surprised joy. He hired the dwarves of Erebor to form it into a necklace for her, among other adornments, and hoped that perhaps better days were before them.

 

Thror refused to return it, showing him the necklace shining on a bed of gems in the box his wife gave him before snapping it shut. Certain, he was later to learn, that Thranduil's reluctance to go to war would allow him this petty victory. He had been right—Thranduil had decided to out wait him. His wife would wear it, eventually, as some descendant would prove more reasonable or would be in need of some aid. Over millenia, what was a few hundred years?

 

He had not counted on her disappointment in him at what she perceived as his passivity. She accused him of weakening their lands with his refusal to consider war over the gems, and stated his enemies would lose their fear of him, that they would be emboldened by his caution in the face of such an insult. He replied disdainfully that his borders were secure and people alive, and that should she wish to pursue war, she could do so with her own hands as opposed to those of her people. He would not shed the blood of his people over gems, especially when time would give him them.

 

A year later she was captured by orcs and taken to Gundabad. By the time he reached her, she was dead. Her body had been fed to the wargs. He and his warriors wrought such vengeance on them the mountain seemed to literally be weeping blood. They left none alive, though doubtless some escaped into the cracks of the place like the rats they were. Legolas had been at Rivendell, and had been spared the experience. He could not bring himself to speak of it.

 

He sometimes wondered if his former wife had been right. If he had warred with the dwarves would the orcs have considered the cost before kidnapping his queen? He didn't know. He felt responsible, guilty, and determined to balance his desire for peace with more of a willingness to display his might, and a commitment to expand it if possible. His decision to seek the treasure of Erebor had been part of that commitment, though he deeply regretted the lives it had cost. He'd grown darker, he knew it. His son knew it. Perhaps had he been darker sooner his former wife would still be his wife.

 

After Dain returned the gems, he'd sent the necklace to Valinor with a promise to meet her there, if she wished, once she was reembodied. After a year, Mithrandir came with word from the Valar—he was as Finwe, though not by his request. His wife chose to forever remain in the Halls of Mandos. She admitted she had married him solely for his position, and claimed it had brought them only one joy—Legolas. Now he would be free to find love with another, one who would truly care for him. It was her gift to him—a second chance.

 

It did not seem like much of a gift--it seemed a humiliation. No doubt she had her own reasons for this as she'd had for marrying him in the first place, reasons she either would not, or could not, fully articulate. He doubted himself capable of such love any longer anyway, another thing Tauriel was likely right about. Focusing on protecting his people and strengthening his land seemed a far better pursuit.

 

The treasure they gained from Erebor would help in funding that, and Thranduil had made alliance with Dain Ironfoot for the latest weaponry in exchange for protecting Erebor's flank. He had a similar agreement with Dale and the Lakemen, though from them he took such goods as the elves did not care to make or grow. It was a good agreement—he would be drawn into this war regardless. With these agreements, at least his people would see some benefit from serving as buffer to Dol Guldur's evil. And given the Enemy's return, only a fool would refuse alliance in the face of such a foe. Tauriel had agreed to serve as diplomatic envoy to the dwarves in addition to her role as captain of the guards, an appointment that honored her love for the dwarf Kili and also served to ameliorate the breach between them. He still found her youthful passion foolish, but it provided a useful connection to a difficult people. She was an effective envoy, though honestly a tiresomely naive one at times.

 

She had returned from Erebor yesterday and brought news of the growing prosperity of both the mountain and Dale, as well as a shipment of goods. Things were peaceful and easy, at least for them, for now. His lands were not so lucky, their proximity to Dol Guldur requiring constant vigilance. The Enemy continued sent his spiders to attack around the edges, always trying to catch the hapless or wayward. Occasionally, a vast amount of them would boil into an area and attempt to overrun a dwelling closer to the edges of his lands. Most elves now lived in communities closer to the Halls as opposed to on the edges, but some had stayed. It was their choice and he directed his guards to monitor them closely. He was currently accompanying his guard out to check on a widow, Mirael, and her two children.

 

Their dwelling was well fortified, as long as they could reach it prior to being bitten, and sat in a particularly lovely clearing with a small spring fed pool. The land was fertile and food easy to grow, game plentiful nearby—he could understand being loath to move from such a place. But in these uncertain times, he wished Mirael would move to a community as most of her kin had done.

 

As they drew closer, they saw a great plume of foul black smoke rising. He spurred his elk to speed, the guards would follow, and soon they emerged into the clearing. There was a large pile of what appeared to be burning spider parts and the house was flooded with some sort of pale green light. He drew his swords and advanced on the dwelling to see Mirael writhing on a bench as some strange female flooded her with light. Human? No, or at least not only human. Far too fair for a human, though quite short for one of the half-elven and rather mannish looking with shoulder length hair. The half elven were very rare and all accounted for, as far as he knew. Those pairings were always the subject of much talk even if among the common elves. But here she was, and she was something not human or not just human. And it appeared she was wearing naught but undergarments, and skimpy ones at that.

 

He saw her eyes, pale shining green, like the first leaf of spring and thought _**beautiful**_ almost at the same time he thought _**dangerous**_. He advanced into the dwelling, “Step away from her, now.”

 

She was chanting something. It evoked green growing things, the feeling of first love or a true friend found, a good night's sleep—this was not dark magic but it was obvious Mirael was in pain from it.

 

“My lord, she is healing our mother. She was bitten badly.” One of the children, the eldest, her name was Cerchil.

 

Mirael started screaming as a dark liquid dripped from her neck, thrashing around. The being kept her hands on her, seemed lost and struggling in the healing. Sweat beaded on the human's forehead and she looked a sickly pale yellow. He could see the lines of the spider poison leading back towards Mirael's neck—she was drawing it out. It was certainly different from their healing arts, and clearly far more painful, but possibly just as effective—Mirael looked to have been given a full dose of a killing poison as opposed to merely a taste to put her to sleep. He could heal this, Elrond, a few others but not many.

 

Thranduil sheathed his swords and grasped the elleth's ankles to hold her in place and allow the healing to be finished. He applied his own fëa to speed the healing and felt a strange connection form to the girl, his fëa seeming to recognize her when he, assuredly, did not. He was able to blunt the pain, and felt the strength of this strange girl's magic. Girl fit—this was a young being. He could sense how very few years were on her, and that she did indeed possess elvish blood but also something more, something new. Her power felt like nothing he had encountered before, alive and invigorating, light. He felt himself a bit less weary, more at peace, simply from this minor contact. Still, given the large pile of spider bodies burning outside, it appeared this being possessed far more than healing magic.

 

So, a powerful ally or a powerful enemy, but regardless a trespasser in his lands. You would think that his clear aversion to intrusions in his lands would be clear by now, as if the presence of the spiders, orcs, and other foul creatures were not enough deterrent to enter his woods. She had not entered on the side he controlled, so she must have made her way along the old Forest Road and past the Enchanted River.

 

He glanced at her again. A small female alone should be dead by now, a mere slip of a girl assuredly not dressed for an excursion. She had a large pack that appeared as strange as her clothing and no weapons he could see. She must rely entirely on magic then? He glanced through the door to the smoking remnants of the spiders crumbling swiftly into ash. Perhaps it was sufficient for the journey but such a large and obvious loss would have drawn the notice of the Enemy closer to Dol Guldur. He would have sent his minions to investigate the cause and likely have captured her. Unless she were too powerful to capture?

 

No, he would have heard of such a battle. So, she could have used stealth to cross, but based on her actions here that seemed unlikely, or she did not cross that way either. A mystery. He was not fond of mysteries in these dark days, though this mystery had preserved the life of three of his. That required some hospitality, though there was still the matter of why she was here in his lands in the first place.

 

He felt her draw out her magic, saw her close the wound somewhat clumsily—he smoothed it shut as if it had never been—then watched her call the poison into a sphere of darkness and cast it into the fire.

 

“While I thank you for your aid to my people, I must insist you come with me to explain your...”

 

“That's nice. I need to sleep. I'll need food to regenerate, your granddaughter promised me safe haven here. I hope you will honor this bargain.”

 

She didn't even look at him, just waved him away then curled up on the floor like a little cat and fell immediately to sleep. A cat so black it looked like a living shadow seemed to materialize out of nowhere, curled up next to the human, and sat watching him with pale blue eyes. It looked rather more like a sentinel than a friendly pet, and was large for a cat. A beautiful pale green light seemed to flicker over her skin, like something he could not see except out of the corner of his eye. The entire effect was eerie. He did not like it at all, not at all. And she seemed to not recognize him, or even his rank which should be obvious to any thinking being. She stupidly thought him grandfather to Mirael and her daughters, which was both inaccurate and incredibly familiar.

 

The two elflings seemed distracted by their mother who had begun to rouse. He would remove Mirael and her daughters to one of the closer settlements for now and set a guard here for this trespasser. He could remember no mention of such a traveler or such magic and was uncertain how best to manage such a being. Would that Mithrandir were here. He thought to bind her and bring her to his dungeons, but as yet the human had offered nothing but an offensive familiarity in the way of direct offense. And that pale light seemed beautiful, but also like a warning to any threatening harm.

 

Mirael had roused, “My lord Thranduil, I thank you for your aid to me.”

 

Thranduil inclined his head, “No aid of mine was needed. It seems this being was the one to render aid. Do you know her?”

 

One of the elflings answered, the youngest, he thought her name was Colien, “No, my lord, but I saw her arrive. A hole opened in the world and she and her cat ran through as if something or someone were chasing them. It closed and then she saw our plight and killed the spiders. She healed our mother too.”

 

The older child, Cerchil, added, “First she shouted some strange language and then I could understand her. We promised her food and a safe place to sleep in exchange for her help.”

 

“I would move her to the halls, however,” he gestured to the strange display, though it seemed based on their expressions that only he could perceive the flickering light, “it seems your guest is currently indisposed. For your safety, I will escort you to the closest settlement. My guards will stay here and wait for this stranger to awaken and then escort her to the halls.”

 

Mirael bowed then said, “My lord, I felt no ill intent from her. If you would allow, I would prefer to stay here and meet my child's promise. The animals needs daily tending, assuming the spiders did not manage to carry them off or kill them.”

 

“The stranger kept them away, mother. The animals are fine.” Cerchil added.

 

“I would offer you and your men such hospitality as well, my lord, should you care to stay? While my home is not sufficient for such a large group, there is room for my lord, my guest, and four guards, perhaps ten if two would be willing to bed down next to the hearth and four here in the main hall.” Mirael added.

 

Thranduil considered. There was wisdom here. Were he to rise and find himself surrounded by unfamiliar warriors his first instinct would be to fight. The girl was an unknown, but did not seem evil and had rendered aid to his people. Given the method of her arrival, she may not have intended to come to his lands at all. She certainly was not dressed for the weather. He was deeply curious about her and her reasons for being here, and unwilling to provoke a conflict with a dangerous sorceress that appeared to currently be willing to be an ally as opposed to an enemy. He could use all the powerful allies he could get, and had quite enough enemies without unnecessarily adding another to the list.

 

“If that is your wish, I will leave my guards here and send provisions for them from the halls, as well as provisions for your guest.” He glanced at the girl and her troubling state of undress. “I will send suitable clothing for your guest as well, all you might need for appropriate hospitality. My guards will send word on her awakening and I will return to speak with her, as well as bring a larger force.”

 

Mirael and her children bowed and thanked him. Thranduil found himself reluctant to leave immediately and stood, considering the girl. Her skin was so pale it almost seemed luminescent like an elf's, she was exceptionally beautiful, and her ears on closer inspection had a small point—none of these traits were typical of humans. She indeed looked to be one of the half-elven, but the peredhil were rare and all known. And while her magic had something elven about it, something alive and growing, it had no feel of human magic—it was something different. So what might be the other half? It had been so very long since he had encountered anything different that he was deeply curious about this being. Her mannish length black hair was as shiny and dark as a raven's wing, or the fur of that strange cat that watched him so closely. Had she been shorn as a punishment of some sort? She was quite short for one of elven blood, a little being but curved, with plush red lips and long dark lashes. Quite fair, and quite different.

 

Despite the clothes, she had signs of great wealth—a large green gem set in a silver metal adorned one hand, the other was adorned by a circle of white gems set in a silver metal, and around her neck another huge green gem on a strand of silver metal set with pure white gems, beautiful. Wealth and beauty, she was a fool to travel alone, regardless of her power. Some daughter of the nobility imprisoned and fled to his lands by accident? He had never seen or heard of such apparel, though perhaps in the savage lands to the east they would be appropriate? They were rumored to be far warmer and perhaps such garments were considered fitting there. But her pale skin did not fit that explanation, or the aspects of her appearance that indicated elven blood.

 

“My lord, might I offer you wine?” Mirael inquired politely. He had been here too long, curious about this being.

 

“No, Mirael. I will take my leave and return when she awakes.”

 

He stood and strode out of her home, still strangely reluctant to go. He had work to do, the rest of his lands to surveil, and a missive to send to Mithrandir.

 


	3. Parlay to Party or First Meetings

Zaile yawned, and shifted under the covers. Spade kept batting at her face. “Ugh, use the cat door.” Spade started yowling, she'd wake the coven and then it would be on. Some asshole must have blocked the cat door, probably someone had passed out in front of it or some other foolishness. She needed to get her own place, but with the Ascension so close this place was the safest if also the most annoying now she'd matured somewhat.

 

“Fine, fine, I'll let you out. Jeez.” She sat up and realized that she was not at home, and then remembered opening the portal and coming to this realm. Seems like the grandfather was honoring the bargain, or they'd imprisoned her. No, this bed was too comfy for a prison and the amulet had allowed them to move her—it had sensed no ill will or there would be bodies. With a yawn, she slid out of bed and looked for her hiking boots. They'd left her in her tank top, shorts, and socks but had removed her shoes.

 

Spade was yowling, yes, she really needed to let her outside. There were her shoes, under the bed. It was winter in this plane, or maybe it was simply a colder plane in general? She was pretty sure she had some winter gear in her pack. The pack was magical and could hold as much as she cared to stuff in there. Anything she needed, she could simply call to her hand. However, the items maintained a tenth of their original weight and she had to remember what was in there. It was at least capable of sorting items into fragile, not fragile, and perishable and excellent at preserving her things. It was just heavy compared to the high end models. She'd been on the road for the last month and it was a bit of a mess right now and _**very**_ heavy. She needed some down time to organize it and clean it out. It was low-end for a magical pack, but better than nothing. With her new wealth, she should get something better but this one held memories of her first Hie, her first college class, hiking trips, so many.

 

She called for winter clothes and pulled out a merino wool base layer top and bottoms, wool socks, her winter hiking boots, hat, gloves, face mask, and a lightweight jacket and matching pants for snowboarding—maybe she'd get a chance to do some of that here? Some of the gear was less than fresh, and she was not that fresh herself—a quick cleaning spell solved that issue. She quickly dressed and headed out to see what she'd be dealing with. The fact they'd put her in a bed as opposed to dragging her outside was a good sign.

 

“Spade, these woods are full of big ass spiders. So, maybe not too far?”

 

Her cat just looked up at her, then with a leap draped herself around her shoulders and purred. She opened the door to find two very tall very blonde men looking down at her, one on either side of her door rather like guards. They were quite attractive in a serious fey hunter kind of way.

 

“I'm taking my cat for a walk. Where's the front door?”

 

Whatever they had been expecting her to say, it hadn't been that. They looked down at her, she looked up at them, and Spade yowled.

 

“Look, I don't mean to be rude, but Spade needs to go outside, if you catch my drift?”

 

They looked puzzled. The more mature looking one said, “We will be happy to escort you to the exit, but there are no drifts of snow—it is still early winter.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

They led her through the center of the tree, she could feel it growing around her and paused to place her hand on the heart. It was old, but strong, a small patch of rot at the very edge of it's root system, some strange sickness encroaching that felt magical, evil, in origin. She liked this tree. It was a nice tree, friendly and polite. With a pulse she healed that section and pushed back the sickness a good hundred feet. She felt the tree's _**thank you**_ and smiled.

 

The guards were looking at her curiously.

 

“The tree just wanted to say hello.”

 

They nodded and continued on through the passage, multiple rooms on either side. At least they seemed familiar with magic and weren't trying to burn her as a witch. They came into the large room she had first entered and she saw the mother and children. And more guards.

 

“My thanks to you, my lady, for my life and the safety of my children and home. My name is Mirael and this is Cerchil and Colien You are welcome here as long as you wish to stay. The king of our lands, Lord Thranduil, would like to speak with you. I will send word to him that you have awoken. I trust you slept well?”

 

“Yes, very well, thank you. My name is Zaile.” Why was she suddenly talking formally like them? It was so weird. And meeting their king, ugh, that meant politics. She'd never heard of this Thranduil and she knew at least the basics of the major powers. Might be a minor house of the fey, or an offshoot she wasn't familiar with. She needed to find out where she was and figure out the lay of the land. Spade yowled and jumped off her to start pawing at the door. She'd figure that out right after she took care of her cat.

 

“Pardon me, I need to take Spade outside and I'll be back.”

 

The fey woman bowed and said, “Of course. My lord's guards will accompany you for your safety.”

 

Safety, sure—they were clearly here to monitor her. But perhaps it would be best to have guides in this strange realm. The didn't seem hostile, just cautious. She headed for the door.

 

“Perhaps, on your return you would care for breakfast and to refresh yourself? I would be happy to assist you, Lady Zaile.”

 

Lady? That was always odd to hear. She preferred to just be called Zaile and not stand on ceremony, but maybe she should just let it ride here at least for now. It wasn't inaccurate--her grandmother was a fey princess after all, aunt to the king of their realm. But best to conceal her lineage until she found out if this realm were allied with her grandmother's or not. The language was certainly not the same.

 

“Thank you. That would be much appreciated.”

 

The guards opened the door, and oh it was cold as fuck out there. If this was early winter, deep winter must be awful. Thank Hecate she had her cold weather gear.

 

The sun had just risen over the edge of the world and the frost glittered on the ground everywhere. It was quite beautiful. Spade ran towards the back of the property, around the huge tree and past it a bit. She ran after her and then stopped, surprised. The section she had healed looked like spring had arrived. There flowers bloomed and the grass was green, and there were fresh berries on the bushes and in the brambles. She would have to send them back to sleep for the winter, but for now they could gather blackberries for breakfast, it looked like for a lot of breakfasts and pies and jam—it was a lot of berries. Spade was leaping into the grass and playing, tearing after a squirrel.

 

She turned to her slightly stunned guards, there was now a female fey with dark reddish brown hair and another male with black hair in addition to the blonds.

 

“I think I should introduce myself, I'm Zaile. And you are?”

 

The female introduced herself, “My name is Lauriel. This is Braigon,” she indicated the one with black hair, “Galasson is on the left,” that was the taller blond who seemed very young, “and he is Badhor,” that was the older of the blondes.

 

“It's nice to meet you.” She bowed to them and they bowed back. “The tree was a little sick, something in the ground, and when I said hello I felt it. I, well, sometimes I use too much power to heal and it has to go somewhere so, umm, there are berries. I was thinking maybe we could gather some for breakfast if you could get some baskets. Maybe we could have pie tonight. Do you have pie?”

 

Lauriel looked over the land, then back at her in amazement, “You did this?”

 

“It was a bit of an accident. I'll send the plants back to sleep after we gather berries, and some flowers for the table. I, I'm still learning and I overdid it.”

 

Galasson seemed amused and said, “I will fetch baskets for this berry gathering in winter. And yes, we do have pie.”

 

“Thank you, ” she smiled at him and his enthusiasm—he seemed like a nice guy.

 

He bowed, “As my lady wishes,” then ran swiftly back to the house.

 

The other fey waited quietly, and she was unsure what to say to them and so she walked toward the green area. Once she crossed over, it was warmer, like a small pocket of very early spring. The air was fresher, even the sun seemed brighter, and she sat down and watched Spade race through the flowers. This was far beyond what she should be able to do with such a small amount of power. Her warrior powers were the same, healing the same, but she seemed to have some affinity for this land and it's plants—maybe her grandmother's people came from this realm? Or there was some connection here?

 

Well, at least she wouldn't starve if she could so easily call food from the earth. Galasson came back with the baskets and apparently everyone else from the house. Well, it was a big berry bramble and there looked to be more in the distance. Galasson offered her a basket and smiled. It was good smile, she wondered what the conventions were here for dating. Her grandmother's people were awfully strict for immortals, but maybe these folks were more reasonable? He might not even be single, but he was certainly friendlier than any of the others except the woman she saved and her kids.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“Of course, Lady Zaile.”

 

“You can just call me Zaile, I don't mind.”

 

He nodded and offered her a basket. Well, she did suggest it and this warmth would not last-she could feel the cold beginning to seep in. The berries would be better not frozen and it would be best to send the plants back to sleep before they froze too.

 

The children ate as many berries as they picked, laughing and calling to each other. They'd turn to her and smile from time to time, and their mother had thanked her so much it was embarrassing. Even the guards seemed to be having a good time, their mouths all tinged with purple. Galasson stayed next to her, offering her a particularly plump berry from time to time, and soon they had two full baskets.

 

He took her basket and carried both back to the house, returning with two larger baskets. Mirael had asked them to gather as many as possible before the plants had to be returned to dormancy. There was still time, but the air was getting colder. Zaile had suggested starting at the edges and working inward, and they had so she knelt down and and sent the first forty feet back to sleep. The life withdrew back to the roots, into branches and deep into the core of the plants. The leftover she sent into the remaining sixty feet. There would be a good harvest come spring, she could feel that she had done no harm with this burst of life.

 

When she opened her eyes, that portion looked much as the rest of the land but still felt lighter. With a smile she stood and looked up at Galasson who seemed to be regarding her with a degree of awe. She looked around to see the rest of the fey had also paused and looked at her with expressions ranging from awe to thankful to disquieted. Did they not have witches or Sorceri in this realm? Granted, she was skilled with plants, but this was not extraordinary work. She would try to tone it down—this had been an accident.

 

“I vow to the Lore, the plants are unharmed. Come spring, they will be fine.” No one seemed to recognize the oath, just looked puzzled, and then everyone went back to berry picking, apparently deciding to just roll with it. Did they not know about the Lore? Shit, she'd better keep her mouth shut. Maybe they weren't fey? But they _**looked**_ like the fey and they _**felt**_ like the fey, at least they felt like her fey. Her people lived in vast wooded cities over a largely forested plane. They were not the asshole slaver fey, but rather the fey that hated and fought the asshole slaver fey.

 

Whatever. She'd pick berries, eat, rest up and open a portal back home and leave these folks to themselves. Before she left, she'd set up some perimeter defenses for Mirael and her children—that had been a close call, too close, and those kids were adorable. She moved to a new bramble and Galasson followed her. They worked together in peace and she thought about how this reminded her of berry picking on her grandmother's land, childhood summer's spent learning about one branch of her family's people and simply enjoying the freedom of a kid in a forest with a bunch of other kids. It had been pretty great.

 

They had all nearly worked to the center. Galasson had found a berry nearly the size of his thumb, and he fed it to her all but filling her mouth and laughing as juice dripped down her chin. She grabbed three regular sized berries and returned the favor, laughing at his surprised expression as he tried to eat them all.

 

“Fair's fair.” She said with a grin. Maybe she had made at least one friend here.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thranduil had waited while one of his guards approached the front door. When no one answered, he felt a sense of foreboding and then he heard the elflings laughing on the wind—it sounded as if it came from the back of the settlement. What could have the entire household outside in the cold morning in winter? They rode around to the back of the property and he paused, awestruck. He felt the land, as clean as when he first came to it with his father Oropher in that one blooming patch. It felt as alive as in his first days here, beautiful, and free of the weariness of time. How had this happened?

 

It must have to do with the girl. He looked for her and saw Galasson feed her a berry. Anger forked through him like lightening and he sneered at the ellon's utter graceless boldness--he was barely an adult having just passed his ninety fifth year. But then he saw the girl laughing, with juice on her chin, and she returned the favor feeding Galasson berries. His brows raised in surprise. Did she not recognize what the gesture meant? Galasson was a mere guard and a young one at that, of no importance save for the fact he was one of Thranduil's people. Or perhaps she encouraged the youth for her own purposes? Galasson should have more sense regardless of how fair and friendly seeming this stranger. Ah, but youth is so easily swayed by beauty—he should have selected older and wiser guards. No matter, he would correct his mistake and remove Galasson from the influence of this stranger.

 

“Galasson, attend me.” He enjoyed seeing the youth blush and rush to his side, offering him his basket of berries. They looked perfect, as delicious as one might find in the peak of harvest. Amazing. He was less fond of the look the girl gave him, her full lips stained purple but turned down in a decided frown. She turned her back on him and went back to berry picking, as if he bore no importance to her at all, as if these were not his lands she stood on. Mirael approached her, and spoke to her, and she looked back at him, looked him boldly up and down, then made a face as if she found him wanting. That was assuredly not the look trespassers gave him, and certainly not female ones.

 

Poised to say something cutting, he saw her kneel and touch the ground. In amazement, he watched as the land returned to the dormancy of winter. But he felt the life spread out even to where he sat, his elk stilling as it flowed through them both, clean and good. This was definitely no human, she was something more. The form was somewhat human, but she was no more human that Mithrandir. Though she did not feel like one of the Istari either. For now, he would reign in his tongue.

 

Such strange clothes she wore. More modest than the others certainly, but masculine and deeply plain to the very edge of ugly. She stood, picked up an enormous basket brimming with berries, and followed Mirael back to her dwelling. Hopefully, Mirael would convince her to wear something more fitting. He had certainly sent more appropriate apparel. The girl's cat followed after, making a leap to land on the her shoulder and drape itself. That did not look appealing at all.

 

They rode to the front of the dwelling and Thranduil called the guards stationed in the house to speak with him. Eight of the others he sent in to assist with preparations. After hearing from them, he gleaned that she had a connection with plants and the earth that was decidedly elf-like, if deeply powerful. She was young enough to lack control over her powers, which raised the question of just how young she was—young was a relative term after all. Her speech was strange and she seemed to mean something different than what the words indicated at times. Direct to the point of being rude, with the confidence of a noble but not the reserve of one she seemed to defy classification and treat others as equals. Though she did not deny being a lady and accepted the title, she did not demand it—it seemed to make no difference to her one way or the other. That reminded him of Elrond, so perhaps she was one of the half-elven.

 

His guards also thought it unlikely she was human, but agreed she did seem to have some human mannerisms. They reported she seemed fond of children, and was concerned for the welfare of Mirael's. The consensus was that they found her well-intentioned but disconcertingly powerful, a useful ally but a dangerous enemy. Overall, they viewed her as more of a potential ally than a threat as she seemed friendly and inclined to be helpful. Thranduil tended to agree with them. Even if she limited her restoration to this section of his woods, he would give much, overlook much, to have even that limited section restored to the life of the the early days. He had no magic ring as Elrond and Galadriel, no way to stay the weariness of time. This being had made this small section of his lands feel better than Imladris, better even than Lothlorien. What more could she do, would she do, if an alliance could be made? He first wished his amiable son were here to assist with that alliance, and then dismissed it as unnecessary. It had been quite some time since he had bothered himself to be charming, but he was not incapable of it.

 

If she were like Elrond, then he could best lure her to stay with a sense of responsibility, that she was needed here, and the offer of knowledge. His library was not the match of Rivendell's, but it was certainly not lacking. Perhaps there was knowledge he could offer her? She was young, perhaps another sort of alliance might suit? She seemed to be considering Galasson's suit, perhaps she was even here to seek an alliance via marriage? He would consider it once he knew more of her people and lineage. If she found a suitable mate here that would provide reason to stay as well as motivation to use her power to the benefit of his kingdom and people. He could simply hire her, but she seemed to have wealth of her own and thus might find such an offer insulting. For now, he would observe and see how best he could turn this to his advantage.

 

He entered the home and seated himself in the main hall, enjoying the roaring fire. This portion of the dwelling was largely stone with the rear of the chamber leading into the portion that existed in the heart of the tree and below ground. This house had once held more elves, but time and the encroachment of the shadow had seen many move closer to the halls or take the ship to Valinor. It was a pity—this was a lovely place, homey but not lacking in elegance.

 

Tauriel approached. He had brought her with him to assist in negotiations, “My lord, preparations are near complete. The Lady Zaile is expressing a strong preference for garments more suited to a ranger such as myself. She expresses the sentiment that,” here Tauriel paused and blushed slightly, “her garments are suited more for courting and vehemently expresses her opposition to this stating that, 'Nobody has time for that.' I assume this must have some meaning among her people. I have tried to explain that such garments are commonly worn by both sexes of the nobility for all types of endeavors and that other garments would be unseemly for a person of her station meeting with the king.”

 

Thranduil felt both offended and amused. He had sent lovely garments for her as sign of respect, not as some sort of overture. This was a very young being, regardless of what sort of being it was. He remembered wrangling with his son over garment choice far in the past—it was invariably a tiresome and pointless business. He let him select his own clothes and let him bear the embarrassment that being poorly dressed invariably will bring. His son learned, and this being surely would as well—she did not seem stupid, simply rather willful and strange. Certainly the customs must be different in her lands. Besides, her dress did not affect him. Let her dress as she pleased.

 

“I care not how she dresses, Tauriel. Let her wear what she pleases. I sent garments suited to her rank as a sign of respect, nothing more. If she wishes to meet me in a sack, by all means fetch her one.” He waved his hand, truly he did not care at this point. He was impatient to satisfy his curiosity.

 

One of his lower ranked guards brought him wine—it was from his own stores that he had brought to ease this discussion. He settled and took a drink, mulling over this strange being that was in his realm.

 

* * *

 

Zaile looked up as Tauriel returned. Mirael was still insisting she wear that shiny awful dress made out of some fancy silvery material. She felt like she was being tarted up and sent out to meet that blond king, Thranduil, like this was a date or something worse. In some realms, the king had the right to bed whoever he wished if they were on his lands. Or take them as a slave, sexual or otherwise. She wasn't sure what message these fancy clothes were supposed to send, so she rejected them. And the bodice was obviously too tight and too low cut to be proper. Nope. Though he was the most breathtakingly attractive man she had ever seen, it was still a big nope—she'd be no one's whore.

 

She also didn't like the way he had spoken to Galasson—this king seemed an entitled douchebag, even for a king. And he had looked her up and down, appraising her like he planned to buy her at auction, though he had done it with a haughty cold disdain as if she were below him. As if this backwards-ass realm had anything on her grandmother's realm, or even the human's realm. At least they had cars and wi-fi and central heating. So far, this place had nothing but giant-ass spiders and cold.

 

“Mirael, Lord Thranduil sent these clothes as a gift of respect but he defers to the wise judgment of Zaile as to what she feels most appropriate for her. He has ordered me to fetch her whatever garments she would prefer.”

 

“I'll wear my own clothes, thanks.”

 

Mirael sighed, “It will be entirely too warm for those inside the great room.”

 

“I have others,” she had plenty of perfectly decent clothes in her pack, “but I will wear any dress without that,” she pointed to the neck line. She could tell from looking at it that it would be too low cut and push out her breasts to look like she was smuggling melons. Those were not typical fey court clothes.

 

Pleading now, Mirael said, “Try it on my lady.”

 

“She does not have to..” Tauriel said wearily.

 

She stepped behind the screen, undressed and pulled the dress over her head, tugged it down over her breasts. It fit exactly as she predicted and she walked out to the fey with her breasts so filling the bodice her nipples were nearly showing and said, “Look, this dress makes me look like a medieval hooker. A fancy one, so perhaps a courtesan is a better word. I don't want to fight, but if the king is thinking of what this dress seems to indicate he's thinking of, I'm going to fight.” She knew her eyes were beginning to glow with power, but this was ridiculous.

 

Both fey looked dismayed and blushed, and Mirael and Tauriel started speaking at the same time.

 

“I assure you my lord did not mean to see you in such a state but the gown is clearly ill-fitting...”

 

“I will fetch another immediately. This is as inappropriate as you say, Lady Zaile...”

 

“his intentions are merely to understand you and your purposes here in his lands...”

 

“I regret if my desire to honor the king's wishes gave you a wrong impression.” Mirael left after that, likely to fetch a dress that fit.

 

“he is an honorable ellon and such things are not part of our customs, we do not have such among us.”

 

Tauriel seemed deeply disturbed and that more than anything convinced her that she had misunderstood. That was good. He'd been a distance away, but she seen a tall, strong, virile warrior. The type that among the Lore had a tendency to take what they wanted and consider the consequences later. She probably could fight her way out and survive it, but it depended on how skilled the king and his warriors and if any of them had magical power. One of them at least had the power to heal, which argued that some of them probably had warrior magic. Better to avoid a fight, if possible, when she was so clearly outnumbered.

 

She should not have stopped to help, but she just could not watch a house full of children eaten by spiders. Perhaps that was the best way to explain her presence here?

 

“I have no purposes in his lands. I ended up here after I opened a portal, it wasn't planned. As soon as I recover my full strength, I'm glad to leave. I would have simply cast another portal, but I'm not down with watching a house full of kids be eaten by giant spiders. I just need to rest, and I'll be on my way.” She really wanted to reinforce the defenses of this house and add some magical wards, something, to help the kids survive but she might have to leave before that. This king seemed deeply suspicious of her and given that his realm seemed to be under attack from magically enhanced insects—no way those spiders were completely natural—she could understand his discomfort with a unknown magic user on his lands.

 

Mirael entered with another dress. This one looked ridiculously big, but it would work. It was a pale green and soft, at least the color was pretty and it felt lovely. She pulled it over her head and the sleeves were too long, the skirt too long, the middle too loose, even the bodice was loose but as it was high-necked it was not a real problem. It was a soft green sack, perfect for the message she wanted to send.

 

“This works.” She bent to pull on her socks and hiking boots. “Let's go.”

 

* * *

 

When Thranduil had said she could wear a sack, he had not meant it seriously. He watched with some amusement as she shuffled across the floor and then seated herself across from him, the dress pooling around her. It was an appealing color and highlighted the pale green of her eyes. Her wary watchful eyes—she did not trust him and felt rather trapped he would wager. With a wave of his hand, he indicated for his guard to serve her wine and to bring the meal. Perhaps wine and food would set her more at ease.

 

“I am Thranduil, the king of these lands. Welcome, Zaile.” He bowed his head. “I thank you for your assistance to my people and offer you refuge in my lands for as long as you wish it,” here he fixed her with a direct stare, “as long as your intentions are peaceful toward my people.” He smiled indulgently and with amusement, allowing a pleased warmth to reach his eyes, “You may kill all the spiders you wish—there are no shortage of them and they are no allies of ours.”

 

They arrived with the meal as she was clearly considering her reply. She took a sip of the wine, and seemed well-pleased with it. He should warn her of it's strength, but a wine loosened tongue would be to his advantage and he very much wanted the truth from this being. Realizing she was waiting for him to begin eating, he was pleased to see this sign of both deferral and manners. So, a civilized being if one quite young and strange.

 

They ate in silence and he observed her. She had courtly manners, excellent posture, and a formidable appetite for such a small being. Though he recalled that she had mentioned needing food to recharge her magic. He motioned one of the guards over, “Bring more of those berries, the bread, the soft yellow cheese, and add the sweets we brought in from the

halls.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

Quiet little being, she ate and observed him back. Thranduil drank his wine and considered that this being was not a fool—as opposed to offering information she was leaving it to him to ask what questions he had. He suspected she was a noble somewhere then and had some experience with court and politics. Interesting.

 

The desserts arrived and he watched her face light up. Legolas had much the same reaction as a young ellon. She seemed to again be waiting on him, but such were not to his taste, “These are for you. I recall you mentioned a need for sleep and food to restore your strength. Eat your fill and then I would ask you to tell me of your journey.”

 

“Thank you, Thranduil, I appreciate your hospitality.” Her voice was clear, well-spoken with a somewhat sultry quality. She smiled slightly, still wary. Then she began eating a truly astonishing amount of sweets for such a small being. Powerful magic apparently created a powerful appetite, or perhaps she was part halfling he thought with amusement. This little being seemed utterly harmless, but there was the matter of all those dead spiders to argue otherwise. Mithrandir used a similar ruse, appearing as a helpless old man when he was anything but. He hoped that the Istari might be able to meet his guest soon. He had sent word to him, but it was entirely too soon for it to have even reached him let alone for a reply. Though Mithrandir had a habit of showing up right when he was most needed, so perhaps he would see him soon.

 

Finally, she finished and looked at him, seemed to square her shoulders and prepare for battle. Definitely had court experience then. He could expect some truth, possibly some lies, and certainly some withholding. He knew this game, let them play.

 

“I arrived here by accident. I am still learning to portal and I am unfamiliar with this plane. May I ask where I am, aside from your lands?”

 

“What do you mean by 'portal'? And what is a 'plane'?” She looked taken aback, then he saw in her face that she would possibly lie. Sometimes lies revealed as much as truth though, and it was obvious that whatever this portaling was she thought he should know of it, as well as this thing called a 'plane.' He rather thought she was referring to the hole the child reported she opened in the world and perhaps a plane was a place? He would be curious to hear her explanation.

 

“Portaling is a, a way to travel from place to place,” she picked up her napkin, folded it in half, “to move from the edge of one side of the napkin to the other without having to travel the middle or,” she pointed to his napkin, “or to go from one napkin to the other as the table can not be traversed. Planes are like our napkins, separate worlds.”

 

If she were telling the truth, and she seemed to be, then he would need accept that their were other worlds besides Arda and that this being came from one of them. Apparently, many other worlds and this being could move from one to another though her control of her powers was unreliable. It was not impossible, and he had the child's witness to support it, but he would reserve judgment until he witnessed it for himself. Such a talent would be incredibly useful, if it were controllable. If she could hold the portal open for a sufficient length of time he could move troops through it, arriving instantly at a destination and surprise an enemy. If it were only herself she could move, she would be a useful messenger, spy, or envoy. He could think of many, many uses for such a talent. She would be a valuable asset, if he could find a way to turn her to his use.

 

“You are in Arda, this continent is called Middle-Earth, and my kingdom is Greenwood the Great, though in these dark times some refer to it as Mirkwood. Certainly, a portion of it has been marred but not all, not yet. You have seen one of the results of this darkness in the spiders, and I think felt some portion of it when you greeted the tree.”

 

“I have never heard of such a place. Do only the fey live here?”

 

Fey? He saw what his guards meant—that word seemed to mean something different to her. “We are Quendi, what Men call elves. I am of the Sindar and my people are both Sindar and Silvan. There are many other races here besides men and elves. And what of your world?”

 

“It is much the same in mine, many races. But my grandmother is fey, what you call Quendi or elves. She is the aunt to the King of that plane, and it is populated almost entirely by the fey. They call themselves the Ettuli and they are the sworn enemies of the Draiksulia, the fey of Grimm Dominion. The Draiks are vile slavers.”

 

Thranduil saw her eyes flash green and certainly recognized this rather naive attempt to ascertain his loyalties and the potential threat to herself. He was satisfied to know that he had been right about her as one of the peredhil, and of high birth. Still, he had heard of none of these kingdoms though the name Ettuli was interesting—the exiters, or those who exit. Exit from where? As for her realm's conflict, he certainly agreed that slavery was repugnant. It was hard to imagine any of the Quendi so far fallen as to be slavers, but the Kin-slaying was vile and it had occurred thrice. It appeared her grandmother's realm was engaged in a Kin-slaying presently, though it was possible they were defending themselves from one as opposed to the aggressors.

 

“My realm has an equal repugnance for slavery and are not aligned with the Draiksulia.” It was true, but certainly misleading. He knew she would assume he was familiar with these names.

 

She looked at him searchingly, and asked “You and your people are immortal?”

 

What an odd question. “Yes, the Quendi are immortal though we may die in war if the injury is sufficiently grievous, or of sorrow. And you?”

 

“My people are also, once we are adult.”

 

“Tell me of your people. Your grandmother seems much like us, and I would ask your indulgence in educating me about your world.” Some reticence showed on her face, perhaps she would lie? No, a decision was made--he thought he would get the truth though she felt concern about it. He wondered of she knew how easy she was to read, and then wondered if her apparent openness was a ploy.

 

“My father is half warlock and half fey, my mother almost entirely witch though far in the past we had a valkyrie ancestor which gives our line a natural tendency towards storm magic as warriors. I claim loyalty to the Andoain coven and am a princess of the Ettuli.”

 

He would not believe her had he not seen her power and felt it himself. Half of what she said seemed pure nonsense. She spoke as if witches were a race, not a result of darkness and study. And what was a valkyrie? He decided to wait and see if she would say more. She drained her goblet—her fourth one—and regardless of what she was it was assuredly not human at all. A human would be utterly inebriated by now and she appeared mildly intoxicated, if that.

 

She continued, “You have never heard of the Lore, have you? I've heard of rare realms such as this, ones where immortals have become separated or even ones that have never been discovered. It's very rare to find an undiscovered realm. Am I right? Are there any other immortals here or only the fey?”

 

Thranduil was at something of a loss, rare for him, and utterly surprised which was equally rare. “There are the Valar, our gods, and the Maiar who serve the Valar. Other than them, we are the only immortals in this world. You seem to mean something more than knowledge when you speak of the lore.”

 

“You _**are**_ an undiscovered realm! How fascinating!” She hesitated, then continued, “I will tell you of the Lore but you must agree to keep it secret from mortals. It is one of our strictest rules, with the only exception being if you somehow came to love a mortal, though why anyone would sign up for that particular heartache is beyond me. It is possible to grant a mortal immortality, but the catalyst is always death and the success rate is terrible. Seems easier to just date immortals, it's not like there is a shortage of choices. Immortals are better looking too.”

 

Perhaps this sixth cup was producing the hoped for results. She was far more relaxed and open. A being of good sense—why anyone would choose a mortal was beyond him as well. How interesting though that her kind had found a way to grant immortality to mortals regardless of the poor success rate.

 

“I agree. But first, a question—in my realm witches and warlocks are made not born. They are usually humans and they pursue dark knowledge and power that is fueled by death and evil. You are clearly not human and your power is healthy and good. What is a witch or warlock in your realm?”

 

She cocked her head and looked deeply intrigued, “In the Lore, in many many realms, witches and warlocks are born. A warlock is just the name for a male witch, one born with magical abilities. We belong to at least one caste: warrior, healer, conjurer, enchanter, and/or seer. Most have only one caste, a few have more. I belong to three—warrior, conjurer, and healer. I could learn spells for the other castes, but I couldn't do them—I don't have the innate ability. Our power is natural, but scholarship helps us to hone it and to better and more efficiently use it. But without the innate ability, spells are just so much paper. I've never heard of anyone being able to learn to be a witch. That would be like learning to be a fish—you either are one or you aren't. Or learning to be tall. So weird. So, these humans are powerless and then learn magic? That is so strange. And they are only evil? That is even stranger. Most witches are good or at least neutral—we have a deep understanding of the tendency of magic to move towards balance. Those that are evil invite that evil to return to them—no thanks.”

 

She knocked back another goblet of wine and waved to one of his guards, “Hit me.” His guard looked utterly nonplussed and looked to him for assistance.

 

“I believe she would like you to refill her cup. In fact, I, too, should like to be hit.” Thranduil said wryly, and was pleased to see her smile at the small joke. She seemed amused by him, which was better than wary for his purposes. “To answer your question, yes, they are always and only evil. They begin as typical humans and become something more, grow in power even as their lives are unnaturally extended--their motive ever to cheat death. But it twists them into creatures of horror and darkness.”

 

“Humans in our realm try, but magic is closed to them. Most don't know of the Lore at all, and we all strive to keep it a secret from them. The Lore is the world of the immortals, and there are two main factions—Vertas and Pravus. Vertas are the immortals that are largely good, thought the Sorceri are pretty borderline honestly, and the Pravus are largely evil and brutal, utterly lawless and immoral or so committed to order as to be utterly repressive and joyless. There are so many kinds of immortals it is hard to know where to begin, but the fey are certainly numerous and exist in most realms.”

 

Interesting. Her world seemed strange and yet there was a familiarity to some of it. She would be a powerful ally if he could persuade her to linger here. He was not fool enough to try to bind her—she was quite possibly too powerful for that and any good will he had won would swiftly evaporate should the attempt fail. He watched her as she watched him and thought perhaps a direct approach would work better than manipulation—he knew too little about her for that. Really, the only weaknesses he had found were for wine, children, and green growing things, which could be said of any elf.

 

Before he had a chance to speak, she stood and with a bow excused herself from the table with a promise to be right back. She took a step and then exclaimed, “Whoa! I'm actually tipsy! I never get tipsy! I think I might be able to get drunk! This is great! The only time I can normally tie one on is when I visit my grandmother and that is only if there is a feast AND if she allows me to go to a private after party because _**public drunkenness is unappealing in a princess.**_ I love this realm!” She then pointed to him and said, “You're the man!” With raised eyebrows, he watched her make her way to the hall with surprising grace given her clear state of intoxication and disappear into it.

 

Thranduil glanced at Tauriel and she left to follow Zaile. He exchanged glances with his guard, who seemed as surprised at this behavior as him, and waited for her return. He frankly agreed with her grandmother, but it was certainly to his benefit to have her drunk and loquacious so he'd be pleased to assist her in whatever she planned to tie with her wine. What odd expressions this being had, and she was clearly as young as he thought. And while it had seemed to be meant as a compliment, he was not at all sure why being called a human male would be a compliment to any elf.

 

She returned quickly, carrying a large and very well-worn pack. She placed her hand in it and pulled out a container made of dark glass filled with some liquid, then another, and some assorted containers as well as a long thin silver rectangle.

 

“This is wine from my grandmother's realm, wine only for the royal table though I always take some home and she always pretends not to notice. This,” she indicated the containers, “is chocolate. Do you have chocolate here?”

 

“No, such is unknown here.” He was more intrigued by the wine honestly, but given the scents coming from the containers much of what was in them was good if strange.

 

“It is a sweet, but it isn't always sweet. Sometimes it is bitter but it is a good bitterness. Like coffee. Do you have coffee?”

 

“Yes, at my halls, though I do not favor it myself.”

 

“You've shared your drink and sweets with me, I would do the same.” Thranduil was pleased indeed. The exchange of food changed this from hospitality to a meeting of friends. He would gladly accept this overture regardless of the appeal of the food or beverage—it would not be the first time he had forced down some unpalatable substance as part of politics.

 

She reached into the pack again and pulled out a strange device and fitted it to the top of the wine container. It removed the seal from the wine in one piece easily and neatly. He would be most curious to know how and why her people stored their wine in such a fashion, as well as look at the device. The scent from the wine itself was as sweet as the world when it was new, he'd never scented such as this. His mouth watered and he blamed her not at all for her thefts. She reached into the pack again—just how much did that thing hold—and removed two beautifully figured silver flagons then she paused and said, “We need music. Just a moment.”

 

She opened the silver rectangle and tapped it multiple times. At first darkness, and then a startlingly clear image of a field and strange symbols appeared then strange music and the merry voices of elves came from that slim music box—an odd but pleasing magic.

 

“This is from our midsummer festival, when I was last home with grandmother.” She looked up at him and smiled, “I hope you like it.”

 

Voices from another world, from the recent past, singing Quenya. This was strange, beautiful magic. There was little doubt a portion of her family was elven, though based on the language she would be related to the Noldor or the Vanyar. Somehow they had left Arda and founded a new realm. That sounded very like something the Noldor would do, especially the exiles. He was deeply moved, and deeply intrigued. Who was her grandmother and her cousin the king? She had not volunteered their names—was it a deliberate omission or simply that she did not consider him likely to be familiar with them?

 

He hesitated to press her for the information. It would be more politic to allow her to reveal it in her own time as opposed to interrogating her as an enemy or a captive. That option was always open should a more subtle approach fail. He very much wanted to know who her people were, especially who led them, as some of the Exiles were far less appealing than others. All were warlike, or had been at the outset, Feanor most of all. Still, Galadriel was one of the exiled Noldor and was a powerful dependable ally. At first he had doubts about her marriage to Celeborn, the Noldor tending to be as fiery and ruthless as they were skilled and intelligent, but the marriage had been happy for many many years, far more so than his. Elrond was of the Noldor as well, at least partly, and was of good character. Perhaps these Exiles were equally honorable, or had become so over time, though he questioned why they had chosen to remain separate from Arda after leaving. Perhaps the Valar would not allow their return?

 

“It is beautiful. I should like to hear it in person one day.” Courtesy, and he would very much like to see this other realm.

 

Smiling, she poured the wine and opened the containers of chocolate. Then she paused and looked to the guards, “I can take a little of the wine and chocolates and magically multiply them. I've recharged enough to do that. The chocolates are easy—they will be just as good. But I am not skilled enough yet to fully recreate the wine. Still, my copy is pretty good even according to my grandmother. Would you like to try some too?” She looked up at the guard around them, “And Mirael, maybe she could join us? The children can have some of the chocolates.”

 

It seemed their parlay was to become something of a feast. And why not? He could talk with her later in the evening as well as now, after more good will had been established. “A feast then. Let us celebrate this as a homecoming of sorts. Welcome, Zaile.” He inclined his head and felt well pleased with the course of this day so far.

 

 


	4. Let's Make a Deal

Zaile laughed at the antics of the children, no doubt feeling the effects of the chocolates. They had been a great hit, and even Thranduil had enjoyed the taste of the darker chocolate as she suspected he would. He had loved the wine, and so she had gifted the entirety of the second bottle to him to his great delight—she had two more bottles in her pack and the wine of his realm was almost as delicious. The guards enjoyed her magicked version and said it was really good. Thranduil agreed with her though that it lacked a certain life of the land the original had, her magic not quite up to recreating it.

 

The hall was warm and slightly cramped with everyone in it, but it was pleasant. It did feel a little like a homecoming and she knew that she would be coming back here for sure, maybe bring her grandmother. Thranduil was different from what she had first thought, warmer, kinder, and, she must admit, extremely handsome even for one of the fey. When he looked directly at her, she felt her heart begin to beat faster. His hair looked like a river of gold in the firelight, thought she thought it might actually be silver—it seemed to pick up color from what was around it and looked as smooth and soft as silk. Despite his genteel manners and dress, there was something brutally masculine and dominant about him. He was frankly smoking hot, but way too old for her.

 

He reminded her a bit of her great-uncle the king in personality. Her great-uncle was a merry happy king. Until he was not. And a more bitter remorseless foe she did not think existed, unless it was her grandmother. He was also a loyal friend and ally, and his word was utterly dependable if he deigned to give it. Thranduil seemed to have this same nature and probably had the same ruthlessness.

 

She would need to be careful. She liked this Thranduil but all kings were perilous—they did not become king and stay king long if they were not. And she now knew he was the presence she had felt in the healing, which meant he was magical and very very old. And he wanted something from her, she knew the signs from her time at court—her great-uncle would similarly wine and dine a delegate and then ruthlessly get exactly what he wanted once their guard was down. Zaile was not quite as drunk as she appeared, and certainly could sober herself in a hurry if needed. Still, this was fun and she felt no current threat from them so she would enjoy the party.

 

Did they dance? There was hardly room but she felt the desire for it. If they did not, she would slip out later to dance by the light of the moon with Spade. It had entered into the late evening, dinner had come and gone. Apparently the king and his guards would stay here. The guards outside had put up tents and lit braziers and fires, and were making merry and switching shifts from outside to in. They were still watching her, still on guard, but it seemed more a formality and less that they perceived her a threat. They seemed to view her as their king did—a cousin come to visit, strange but not unwelcome at all.

 

It was quite cold outside now. Perhaps they would enjoy some hot chocolate? Galasson had been outside almost the entire time and she rather missed his easy companionship. If they had enough milk she could take some of the chocolate and make hot chocolate for the guards outside. She headed to the huge kitchen—once this must have been a great house and full of elves. It saddened her to think of Mirael here alone with her children. Perhaps she would stay and do her study here. That would depend on the whim of the king, and what it was he wanted from her and whether she was willing to give it to him. That would be the dangerous part of this evening, and she felt sure he would not let the night end before he revealed his purpose.

 

“What is it you need, Lady Zaile?” Mirael had followed her into the kitchen.

 

“Do you have milk, enough for all the guards, and a large pot?”

 

“Yes, what would you like to make?”

 

“It is a beverage of my lands—hot chocolate. We often drink it on cold nights such as this and I thought it might help the guards to warm up, if they like the chocolates.”

 

“Most do, though they generally prefer the less sweet varieties. I think they would like this beverage if I understand it properly and it was less sweet.”

 

“I can make it like that, and the king would likely prefer it that way too.”

 

Mirael smiled, and together they made hot chocolate, using Mirael's taste as the guide. As the scent began to drift through the manor, so did the guards begin to drift to the kitchen. They seemed as surprised as Mirael at her making it with her own hands and were deeply honored.

 

“You should bring the king the first cup, my lady.” Mirael said with a smile, and Zaile had the feeling this was some point of protocol.

 

Mirael had provided a series of earthenware mugs and she poured the king the first. Zaile took it to him by the fire, feeling strangely nervous of this gesture though it was likely simply politeness. He watched her approach with hooded eyes, his expression unreadable. Dangerous, she remembered in that moment, a dangerous ancient king. He seemed less merry and there was an unsettling intensity to his gaze.

 

“This is for you. It is hot chocolate. I thought the guards might be cold and enjoy something to warm them, but Mirael said I should bring the first cup to you.” She was babbling, like an idiot.

 

He took it, drank, smiled in pleasure and drank again then sat it next to him. “It is quite good. Thank you.”

 

She turned and he caught her wrist, “Sit with me, please.” He shifted to the side on the bench and indicated the area next to him. So, he was ready to spring the trap then? Her heart started hammering and she felt quite warm at how close he was to her, could not help but notice again how handsome he was and how elegant.

 

“I should serve..”

 

“You should _**not**_. Sit with me.” His voice was firm. It was the command of a king. A power struggle would be counterproductive, so she sat, balanced on the far edge of the bench while he reclined on the other side, the picture of lazy power watching her with half lidded eyes. He seemed to be feeling some of the effects of the wine himself, which could be good or bad depending on his disposition.

 

He simply observed her for a time, his deep blues eyes watching her. Mirael took hot chocolate outside and she watched longingly, wanting to be outside under the moon herself.

 

“Is there some _**reason**_ you wish to be outside so badly?” She started at the irritated tone in his voice, and realized she had rudely ignored a king in his own realm. That was stupid and a good way to end up dead. Shit.

 

“I feel the moon call me. I want to be outside under her light.”

 

He seemed mollified by that explanation and stood offering his hand. “I will accompany you then.”

 

At the door, he wrapped her in a fur lined cloak that held his scent. It was such a personal gesture she blushed uncomfortably. Probably just some sense of hospitality. It was huge and dragged the ground, but she was certainly going to be warm. He took one of his guards' cloaks and wrapped himself and led her outside. Spade ran out after her and she smiled to see a light snow beginning to fall.

 

Clouds scudded across the moon and she wanted to walk away from the fires and the people until it was simply her and the moon and Spade. Later, after they were all asleep, she would dance and feel renewed. For now, she would walk and hear what this king wanted of her. Assuming he would be honest, which was assuming a lot of a king, even a fey king. They rarely lied directly, but they would choose to omit information or shade it in such a way the hearer made a wrong assumption.

 

He offered her his arm, and smiled down at her slightly, the snow lightly dusting his hair. They walked in silence for a time, the crunch of the leaves underfoot as he led her into the forest, and were followed by four of his guards, which set her somewhat at ease. The idea of being alone in the forest with Thranduil seemed both exciting and dangerous, though she wasn't sure what sort of danger she feared from him. She would listen to her instincts—there was reason to be wary.

 

After a time, the sounds of the fire and the merrymaking faded and she could hear the forest, feel it growing around her. This part was mostly well, though there was still some sickness around the edges that felt like a lost tooth, something missing and calling out to her for repair. It would be an easy fix here under the moon, so easy. She paused and felt the music of the place call to her and almost began to dance but caught herself, not willing to do so with the others here. Most of this day felt unreal, like a particularly vivid dream, and this walk seemed more so, as if she were subject to some spell she could not perceive.

 

Still, he led her on. This was quite a long walk, until finally they came to dark river and paused on its banks. She felt some enchantment from it, strong enchantment and her wariness increased.

 

He turned to her, “Tell me truly, why are you here and what do you want?”

 

She sensed that she had best offer the full truth, that some danger was here.

 

“I am here by accident and I want time to study, and to fortify Mirael's house. I want to protect her children and I am curious about the connection between this place and my family. I would like to explore that.” She hesitated, “And there is a sickness here among the trees, I would like to help with that as much as I can. Their music is beautiful and I feel some connection to them, something I want to explore as well.”

 

He nodded, then said, “I would have you stay here with us as well. How long would you stay?” He stepped closer to her, looked down into her eyes intently.

 

“I'd stay a few months, six at the most. I have obligations at home.”

 

He seemed to be considering, then said, “What might I offer you to linger among us?”

 

“Why do you want me to stay?”

 

He looked down at her, then sighed. “My lands face a creeping evil—you have felt it in the woods, seen it in the spiders. Your magic offers respite from that, a way to heal at least a part of the wood. Even if it were temporary, I would offer much, do much to have that.” He glanced briefly at the river and she sidled away from it slightly. She wasn't sure what it was, but she knew it held some threat to her.

 

“What do you have to offer?” She could stay longer, that was true, if she checked in with Andoain and extended her sabbatical. “I can stay longer but I will need to check in with my own people. We are on the brink of war ourselves and should it start, I will need to return home.”

 

He nodded again, looked ready to bargain, “I can offer knowledge, nearly 7,000 years worth, of our magic and history. Treasure, gems, works of art, what would you have of me?”

 

This could be a mutually beneficial arrangement. She could study here in peace, possibly find knowledge that would increases the power and wealth of her coven, and as please her grandmother with a connection with her branch of the fey. 7,000 years of knowledge must include something useful, and she was deeply curious about humans learning actual magic, magic powerful enough to lengthen their lives—that was impossible in her experience. This seemed like an opportunity too good to pass up and the quest she was on had no time limit or urgency, “Free access to all your libraries and everything in them, an hour of your time or another equally qualified teacher daily if needed.” She thought, “Gems, precious metal, jewelry, magical weapons, or other precious items you deem worthy of the service I have provided for each month I am here, paid monthly and in good faith of the value of my work. Freedom to come and go as I will. Mirael has already offered me lodging, I would stay with her but I would like her to be compensated for lodging and feeding me.”

 

“One year of sworn service to me, with leave to join your people should war begin and you be needed by them. I agree to your pay, the library, the teacher, but you will stay in my halls. You have freedom to leave my lands only with my permission, aside from if you are called to war—for that you need no permission only to notify me.”

 

“Once a month I will open a portal and visit my people for a week. And I prefer Mirael's.”

 

“A day. My halls.”

 

“Five days. I'll come to your halls in the daytime and sleep at Mirael's.”

 

“A day. My halls.”

 

“Two days. Half time at Mirael's. I won't agree to less.”

 

“Agreed. But two days in my realm, from dawn to the break of the following day, and not if we are besieged or in dire need of your skills. Half time at Mirael's unless I deem it necessary for you to be in the halls for safety or because your skills are direly needed.”

 

That was tricky of him, but fair. She was less than happy with the idea of asking his permission for anything, but she could see his point—she would be his employee.

 

“That's fair. I will also take a week every two months to explore where I please in this world. ”

 

“You will not travel without an escort, and I approve the destination and know your plan.”

 

“I will take a protector as advised but I select the destination and I will give word of my travel plans

to you.”

 

He looked at her, considering, then nodded, “One week. If you are once late in returning, you forfeit the right to travel without my permission.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

“You will observe the laws and customs of my lands as well, and make no alliance without my permission and blessing.”

 

She cocked her head at him, “I will observe the laws and customs that do not violate my own conscience and, if I must violate one, I will speak with you and do so discreetly if possible. I can not, will not, swear to obey laws I have never read. And what do you mean by alliance? If you mean other lands and other rulers, yes, I swear—one king is quite enough to deal with.”

 

“Wise. That is a fair compromise. As for alliance, I would include marriage. My people do not lightly form attachments and it is your plan to eventually depart these lands. I have observed your fondness for Galasson and he for you. He is a very young elf, 95 of our years, the equivalent to 18-19 human years. Too young to thoughtfully form an alliance with another by far. You are young as well, I think.”

 

“I am 52, an adult for my people.” She said dryly. She'd had this same speech from her grandmother warning her about taking care to not form an _**attachment of the body**_ via intercourse, how their branch of the fey were not like the other immortals and that physical intimacy formed the marriage bond. Lots and _**lots**_ of talk of how 52 was too young regardless if it was mature for a witch. It wasn't as if there weren't plenty of other things to do besides intercourse. The bonding via intercourse probably wouldn't even apply to her as ¼ fey, though it had to her halfling father—he'd been hopelessly lost to her mother the very first time they had sex. Lucky for him, she had felt the same. So, better safe than sorry. No P in the V for her until she met her mate. So far, it had been easy to say no anyways.

 

His eyes widened, “Far too young to form any sort of permanent attachment. For us...”

 

She set her hands on her hips and glared up at him as she flushed furiously, “I don't mean to be rude, but I've had the sex talk from my own family. I know how it works and what I can and can not do, what equals a marriage and what does _**not.**_ At most, I might have kissed him and probably not even that—your realm seems entirely too serious about that sort of thing if some _**very**_ basic flirting can be this big a deal. I have absolutely zero interest in being tied down to anyone. There is too much to do and see, worlds to explore, to lose my complete freedom. And I'm not a heartless tease as you seem to be implying.”

 

He glared back down at her, “Then this should not be a hard thing to agree to, should it?”

 

“Fine. I'll check in with you in the unlikely event I want to seriously courtany of your people. If any indicate serious interest in me, I'll let you deal with that.” She wanted to add dad, but very much doubted he would like it. And there was still a hint of threat in the air.

 

“Agreed. Until you return to your people, you stay will stay with me, excepting that one week. And that week is yours only if you are never late.”

 

“I will stay half the time in your halls and half at Mirael's.” She already got this part of the agreement.

 

“Agreed. As I said, you will stay with me in my lands until you return to your own people.”

 

WTF dude? She looked at him and felt like there was some trick here, and considered his words carefully. It seemed clear, then it occurred to her he hadn't sworn to not place any obstacles about her return to her own realm. “I will stay with you in your lands as long as you, your people, your allies or someone you hire or anyone of this realm does not act to keep me from returning to my own people and you and your people, or your agents or allies do not act to make me late when I have a week to travel.”

 

His eyebrows raised and a surprised smile spread over his face, “So wise for one so young. We have an agreement, then?”

 

“Yes, I vow to the Lore.”

 

His face serious, he said, “I swear to fulfill my part, by Eru Iluvatar.”

 

He seemed more at ease, threat gone, and offered her his arm. They turned to return and began to walk among the trees again. She could hear the slight discordance in their music and longed to heal it.

 

“What is that river?” She was curious.

 

“It carries an enchantment, I brought you here to warn you of it. Contact with its water causes the afflicted to fall into a deep sleep and often drown. If the water is black, do not drink of it.”

 

“That seems like good advice pretty much everywhere. Who would drink black water?”

 

“Travelers. If it were daylight I would take you to a common crossing and you would likely see bones that have washed up on the banks. We leave them as a warning, but the desperate and the thirsty are ever willing to risk the waters.” He looked down at her, the moonlight casting shadows on his face and making him appear even grimmer than usual. “These woods are perilous, you should

not enter them alone.”

 

She listened, and felt the trees themselves warning her of the river, felt it's enchantment. He no doubt knew his own lands better than her, but it didn't seem that dangerous a place compared to many others in the Lore. Wild, maybe dangerous to fools and mortals, but she trusted the trees to lead her if she needed.

 

They walked back to Mirael's in silence, and his arm under her hand was warm and muscular—he was a large strong male under those fancy robes, a warrior king. His cloak around her, she was surrounded by his scent, as if she were held by him. She wanted to throw it off and at the same time wanted to wrap herself in it more closely. Her reaction to him unsettled her and she would be glad to be away from him. He felt overwhelming, and more than a little frightening now she was beginning to sober up.

 

They reached Mirael's and he guided her to the door, “I will see you on the morrow and take you to my library. Good night, Zaile.”

 

She inclined her head, “Good night, Thranduil.”

 

He strode away through the falling snow towards a grand yellow tent. She again felt somewhat like this was a weird fever dream, unreal. She stepped inside and realized she was still wearing his cloak, and decided to return it in the morning—he didn't seem to need it and she was uncomfortable with the idea of following him to his tent.

 

Again she felt the moon call to her, as she sat on her bed and reflected on the utter strangeness of this day. She missed her coven, there was always another witch who would dance with her even if she didn't feel the call. Here it was so _**strong,**_ almost a compulsion, but how to have the privacy she wanted?

 

She had to go, felt the absolute need of it and knew that if she went to sleep she'd end up sleepwalking and what would the fey make of that? She quickly pulled off the dress, put on her base layers and then pulled out her phone and played for an hour hoping that the fey would be deep asleep at that time. She got up, pulled on her outer clothes and boots. Then she cast every charm and spell she knew for concealment and silence and lightfootedness. The doors would be the hardest parts, she thought, and her effectiveness with her own kin had only been about 50/50.

 

She felt the door, felt the two fey on the other side of it, and how very close to sleep they were. It would take only a nudge to tip them over into a deep sleep. Carefully she opened the door and slipped out between them, pulling the door shut behind her. She sensed everyone else in the house was truly asleep and crept toward the front door.

 

The hall was absolutely stacked with sleeping fey—how was she to reach the door? She could see the light of the moon calling her, and so, carefully, she stepped lightly between them and reaching the table ran along it's length until she was closer to the door. No fey slept here as it was far from the fireplace and rather cold. She stepped down carefully, and touched the door. There were no guards outside the door that she could sense, and only the king seemed to still be awake, his mind worried over something and still feeling the effects of wine—he must have kept drinking. She withdrew quickly in case he sensed her and renewing her charms for silence, turned the locks.

 

Once outside, she locked them again and nudged her guards awake—she did not mean to leave the house defenseless. Letting the trees lead her, she began to run toward a clearing she could sense. The moon on her face and the silence and solitude a balm to her soul.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil felt the lightest touch on the very edges of his mind, and then it withdrew. He recognized it from when he had helped her to heal Mirael—it was Zaile. In that light touch, he had felt her nervousness, her fear, and knew that she was awake and doing something she wished to remain hidden. He strode to the opening in his tent and saw nothing at first, and then slight imprints in the snow leading into the woods. She had concealed herself, but not perfectly, and thought to flee him while he slept. Oathbreaker, he thought grimly.

 

He should have cast her in the river and erased her memories of her realm after all, a mistake he would rectify once he caught her. It had seemed too dark a choice, and too risky. If she forgot her realm would she forget how to use her magic? The effects of the river varied, especially with magical beings. Such power as hers was worth a little risk though, and while he knew Mithrandir would disapprove and that he himself would grow that much darker with the doing, he would pay that price to heal his woods a thousand times over.

 

Still, he had been relieved when she had made such a reasonable and easy alliance with him. Foolishly relieved apparently. He slung on his swords and a cloak and strode out into the night—she would not be hard to follow and was a fool to wander these woods alone. Once he reached her, she might feel grateful for his help. Perhaps he could withhold it until he bound her with the oaths of his people, ones hopefully more effective than hers. He loathed the idea of erasing her memory, but he would do what he must.

 

She was fast as an elf, and lightfooted. Even some of his people would have struggled to follow her. Once he lost the trail, and then focused his senses carefully, and found evidence of her that was more a sense of her passage than any clear clue—she was skilled at hiding herself. Finally, he came upon her in a clearing, the silver light of the moon shining full on her as she danced barefooted and spring bloomed at every touch of her feet, flowers of many colors and the pale new grass. She had shed her coat, her boots and socks, and wore the trousers from earlier and a close fitting shirt of white. The clothes were ugly, but she was exquisitely beautiful in motion, especially given the sheer _**life**_ that she radiated.

 

He stood, transfixed, as she danced and thought nothing, was only in this moment, this time, all schemes and plans forgotten. Watched her as she wheeled around the clearing and seemed to see nothing, lost in her magic and her joy—he could see it shining on her face. The woods pulsed with power, and he felt this place heal, the darkness and weariness of time driven back as she danced. In him the weariness of time lifted and he felt younger than he had in many many years, as if within himself some of the darkness had been driven back as well. Desire fired within him and he was surprised at the intensity of it, that it existed at all. It was not fitting, she was so young.

 

So beautiful, so powerful, so _**alive**_ , he stepped towards her and would have caught her to him but out of the woods paced an enormous black feline with the same blue eyes as her cat but far far larger, differently shaped and striped black with a lighter black. It had great fangs protruding from its mouth and snarled at him in a clear warning. So, she had more protection that just her magic? That was likely good given the effect she had on others, but frustrating in the moment. He watched her dance until finally she stopped, panting with the effort, and he heard her laugh with pure unbridled joy. He doubted he'd heard a sound simultaneously so innocent and yet so sensual. Her cat shook itself and shrunk back to normal cat shape and with a final glare of warning twined around her legs.

 

She saw him and said, “What, what are you doing here?”

 

“I could ask the same of you. _**I**_ did not sneak out in dead of night under cover of magic,” he replied dryly.

 

“I felt the moon calling me and I needed to dance. I would normally dance with my coven.” She said it as if this was the most commonplace thing ever, to dance by the moon in the wild forest in the dead of night in winter.

 

He looked down at her and was struck by how different she was from any he had encountered in his long life. “Thank you for healing this part of my land, and the land by Mirael's. I will accompany you on the way back for your safety.”

 

Clearly uncomfortable with his presence, she quickly donned her coat and boots. She stood, the snow falling into her raven black hair and he could not resist the urge to wipe it away and pull up the hood of her strange tunic.

 

“Thank you,” she said softly and looked up at him with those strange eyes. Desire forked through him again and he resisted the impulse to touch her. Instead, he offered her his arm. After a moment, she took it and they began to walk back. The night was clear, beautiful, the stars visible around the light cloud cover. He felt a sense of contentment he had not felt in millenia. She was so young, far too young for him. But she had awoken desire in him, possibly unintentionally much as she had made the land feel so much younger, lighter. He would consider the consequences and options tomorrow, for tonight he would simply enjoy her company.

 

When they were less than a quarter of the way there, he saw her stumble and realized she was truly exhausted. He lifted her into his arms and held her to his chest.

 

“I am perfectly capable of walking.” Even her voice sounded weary, if annoyed. A faint blush spread over her cheeks and she averted her eyes, her pulse hammering in her throat. He rather thought she found him attractive and was as amused as he was pleased.

 

“You are obviously exhausted. Allow me to carry you as a thank you for healing my land.”

 

“Fine. But I still want to be paid.”

 

He raised his eyebrows and smirked, “It is not cheap to receive this sort of transportation. Very few have had the luxury of my carrying them. I think the debt will be paid in full by the time we reach the camp.”

 

“Then put me down. I'll walk.” Her voice rang with defiance. It was amusing to taunt her, quite so.

 

“No. As your king, I am responsible for the health and welfare of all my subjects. You are exhausted and you walk quite slowly.”

 

“I do not walk slowly.”

 

“You do. It will be far faster for me to carry you. Yield this contest and accept your fate.”

 

“I'm not at all sure I like you.”

 

“I am your king. Your feelings for or against me matter not as long as you obey me.”

 

At that she laughed, “You are not my king.”

 

He looked down at her face, eyebrows raised and said, “I am your king for the next year, unless you wish to declare yourself false and an oathbreaker.”

 

“I work for you. That's not the same. We have a contract of mutual benefit. That does not make you my king.”

 

Thranduil considered this idea. It had merit. He had never hired mercenaries but he knew of the existence of such. “So, you consider yourself a mercenary? One who will work for any if the price is sufficient?”

 

“I am a more of a scholar than a mercenary, though in general most witches are mercenaries. And I'm really picky about who I work for actually. I have no need of wealth, though my coven does to prepare for war. I'm far more motivated by knowledge and justice than wealth.”

 

Much like Elrond then. “What of your cousin the king? Does he not have your loyalty?”

 

“Yes, but it is the same family loyalty I feel for my grandmother. My own conscience is my king. If I'd wanted one, I could have just married one.”

 

That was intriguing. So young and already she was being courted? It did not surprise him, with her gifts and beauty she would be quite the prize. Add in whatever family connections she had and he could see it quite well. Intriguing. He wondered why she had rejected this king. “Why did you reject this king?”

 

“Kings. I didn't like any of them.”

 

“Kings? There were so many and all unappealing?” He believed her but deliberately chose to sound doubtful to rankle her into telling him more.

 

“There were nine kings, four princes who would be king. Only one was ugly, six were fey and extremely attractive physically, the others were perfectly acceptable to handsome. I found them all repellent.”

 

“Did they offer so little for you?”

 

“See, that's it right there. That old timey attitude of buying me like a cow at market, that's just gross.”

 

Thranduil laughed out loud, amused at her irritation and replied, “The dowry represents the wealth and power of your suitor, their worthiness and ability to protect you.”

 

“I promise you, I can protect myself just fine and I have my own money. If I need more, I'll earn it. Dowries are stupid, and incredibly insulting. It's like being bought as a slave, gross. No way.”

 

“This is what you objected to? Being given wealth?” He was utterly fascinated at these ideas, and at her apparent belief that she really was perfectly capable of being completely independent. She rather reminded him of Galadriel in this, though Galadriel was as tall and strong as a ellon even without her ring and this little being seemed quite weak except for her magic.

 

“No. Having my family offered wealth to marry me so they can have access to my power and position and hopefully have powerful children. They didn't want _**me**_ , they didn't know _**me**_ , they just wanted my position and to have sex with me. I'm sure they thought I would be some quiet biddable obedient wife and crank out the kids. Nope. I'm not about that life.”

“You don't want marriage and children?”

 

She sighed, “Yes, of course, but I want them with someone who loves and desires _**me**_. Someone who sees me and not just advantages for themselves they can get _**through**_ me. And frankly, it's a real challenge to separate out which is which, so I tend to just say no to all of them. I have time, and so do they. I suspect that if any of them actually cared for me they would wait and not just move on to another. Time will sort them out for me.”

 

“Wise. You are right concerning that.” He wished he'd been this wise when he was young. Though it sounded as if she had felt no real passion for any of them. Waiting is far easier without passion.

 

He stepped over another branch, and was amused to see she had closed her eyes. It seemed she had accepted her fate after all. At first she was stiff, clearly uncomfortable with this regardless of her clear need of his assistance. But after a time, she laid her head on his shoulder. He felt her breath on his neck, could smell the sweetness of her, and then gradually she relaxed into his arms—she had fallen asleep.

 

He reached the camp and carried her toward his tent. Tauriel and Badhor were on watch, they looked surprised and concerned and came forward.

 

“She is unharmed, merely cold and tired—no wolves or fell creatures were about. To evade your perception she used magic to conceal herself, but only to dance by the moon. Foolish, but not ill-intended.”

 

They nodded, and went back to watch as he carried her into his tent. He reached his narrow travel bed and laid her down on it. Covered her with his cloak and found another blanket. Her cat leapt up and settled next to her, watching him.

 

“I mean your mistress no harm, beast.”

 

It blinked at him, then curled up and went to sleep itself, strange creature.

 

Thranduil settled himself in his chair and considered the odd day he had experienced. He did not feel the least bit tired, felt far more alive and joyful than in many a long year. Work then, he had letters to write and to read, plans to make. He looked over at her sleeping profile and thought that those kings that had offered for her had likely had far more than mere position to induce them, or wealth. She was exquisitely beautiful and yet seemed to care little for it, to consider it unimportant. Her intelligence and personality, her fire and liveliness, she was a fascinating little being. Far too young for him, a child, but fascinating.

 

He turned his mind from her and to war. Mithrandir had entrusted him with the creature Gollum and told him it had likely borne the One Ring and been twisted by it. Pitiful beast, but dangerous, deceptively dangerous as only pitiful evil can be. The Enemy had awakened and moved from Dol Guldur to Mordor, the mountains smoking again and even the Nine had been spotted, one of the Nazgul offering Dain the rings of the dwarf lords of old for news of the One Ring. To the dwarf king's credit, he had rudely refused. Something about carting his rotting carcass off his front porch before he gave him a hammering. Thranduil smirked at that, feeling ever so slightly warm towards Dain. He had been fair and kept his bargains so far, unlike Thorin or Thrain. Add in the sort of foolish bravery as to threaten and insult a Nazgul and there was certainly something to admire. Yes, he would send Dain a barrel of his best wine and congratulate him on his hospitality. The dwarf would enjoy the wine and the joke, and Tauriel would appreciate the gesture. He would send her back with it.

 

Dol Guldur remained a threat, as did Mount Gundabad, his kingdom caught between the two like a piece of metal in the forger's pincers. Well, they could hammer as they will, his kingdom would hold. He glanced over at Zaile. Though he'd gladly take what help he could find, willing or no. He liked her, he was glad the river had been unnecessary. Given that she seemed to be like Elrond he hoped that her sense of justice might motivate her to help them. Let her come to care for them, see his people as her own, especially Mirael's children. She would be moved to help them, hopefully. He rubbed his head as the weight of the darkness they faced closed in on him again and he felt the weight of his responsibility renewed. Though he felt far better able to bear it than before.

 

 


	5. A Foul Tempered King and A Trip to His Halls

Zaile felt warm, the bed soft and Spade purring and pressed against her side. She shifted and started petting Spade and snuggled into the covers to continue sleeping never opening her eyes. She felt quite tired still, but languidly tired not painfully exhausted. It was a pleasant tiredness, like she had accomplished something important and good.

 

“Do you plan to sleep the _**entire**_ day away?” A cold sarcastic male voice—why was there some asshole in her bedroom? What the fuck? She turned over to glare at him and tell him to get the fuck out and saw a blond haired fey staring coldly down at her with raised eyebrows. She remembered yesterday, then last night, his carrying her back. She sat up quickly, ignoring him, somewhat embarrassed to be sleeping in the same room as him. Was this his bed? Did something happen? Thankfully, she was still fully dressed—that was a relief.

 

“Yes, your virtue is _**quite**_ intact. Now, if you would consider leaving _**my**_ bed, we will depart this place.” His voice was cutting, almost cruel. He'd mentioned her going to his library today, but she'd be happy to pass on that if this was the mood she'd have to deal with. She didn't ask him to follow her and she certainly didn't ask him to carry her back—she could have just ridden Spade back. Dealing with a grumpy king while still half asleep was not a good idea, so best to just leave as he said. She slid to the end of his bed and stood, and then strode toward the front of the tent.

 

“You have _**not**_ been dismissed.” His voice rang with a cold anger. Apparently he was less than pleased with her lack of response and choice to ignore his barbs. Court had taught her that few things were simultaneously so blameless and annoying as steadfastly refusing an invitation to a fight from someone who considered themselves your superior.

 

She saw Tauriel look at her with pity and halted by the door, her back to him. She'd simply wait.

 

“Perhaps the manners in your land have become somewhat _**degraded**_ over time, but here one does not turn one's back on a king. _**Turn**_.” Anger again, though what he had to be angry about eluded her.

 

She turned to face him, her face carefully neutral, eyes looking into the distance respectfully. He clearly wanted a fight, and she would not give him one. It wasn't clear why he wanted a fight, but she knew enough about politics to know that he was provoking her with some end in mind. Were she not so exhausted magically, she might give him one, but for now it seemed wise to simply ignore the provocation.

 

With the soft rustle of robes she heard his approach, and shivered. She felt his eyes on her, and then his hand gripped her chin and lifted it so she looked up at him. Carefully, blandly, neutral she looked into his stormy eyes—whatever he was feeling it was certainly strong. What was wrong with this king? He brought her to his tent, he kicked her out, and now he's angry she was leaving? Even her great-uncle wasn't this volatile. Or as gorgeous.

 

“Pack your things, such as they are, and be ready to leave in an hour. You may leave.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Yes, my _**king**_.”

 

“You are not my king.”

 

He pulled her close to him, bent and angled his head until they were eye to eye, and hissed, “For the next year, I _**am**_. You will address me with the respect I deserve.”

 

“Yes, _**King**_ Thranduil. And if we are to observe the formalities, then you will address me as _**Lady**_ Zaile. Or perhaps the manners of _**your**_ realm have degraded over time?”

 

He glared down at her, and then with a nod released her and and said coldly, “Lady Zaile, we depart in an hour. Be ready.”

 

She curtsied, and then turned and left with just a bit more speed that was exactly respectful. This game was one she knew fairly well having been schooled by her grandmother and great-uncle.

 

Tauriel followed her into the house. Packing was easy, but she very much wanted a shower. The cleaning spell was effective but she never felt as refreshed by it.

 

“Good day, Zaile.” Mirael said as she saw her.

 

“Hi, Mirael. I have to go with the king today in an hour and I was wondering if I could take a bath or a shower? I'm not sure how your people bathe, I hope this is not an imposition?”

 

“Not at all. I will prepare the bathing room for you. Come, sit, eat.”

 

Mirael set out cheese, bread, wine, water, and fruit then left to prepare a bath for her.

 

“He was not always thus,” Tauriel said softly.

 

Zaile turned to her, surprised. “Oh?”

 

“No. For much of my youth he was a kind and patient king, if often seeming to be afflicted with some melancholy. He has reason to be as he is now, perhaps he will tell you why himself in time, but as our king it is a burden all must bear.”

 

“Any advice you have on how to deal with him would be appreciated. I'm stuck here for a year unless my people go to war. He talked me into a year of service. If I'd seen this side of him, I'm pretty sure I'd have said no.”

 

“He is exceedingly skilled at getting what he wants, and ruthless about it.” Tauriel looked at her, and seemed to mean more than what she was saying. “My advice would be to avoid him if he is in a foul mood, or to not fight him while he is thus vexed—fighting with him when he is in the grip of darkness is both dangerous and pointless, he will not consider your words until the darkness has passed. But then, he will. It is better to speak to him when he is merry, though he is seldom so in these times. It was a great pleasure to see him more his old self last night.” Tauriel looked at her intently, “Perhaps he will have more of these days now.”

 

“Based on this morning, I doubt it.”

 

Tauriel looked at her with sympathy and said, “I will help you, if I may.”

 

Zaile smiled and said, “Thank you. I'm sure I'll need it before the year is out. I'll go pack my stuff.”

 

She headed to her room and pulled out fresh underwear, base layers, socks, and an undershirt. She'd have to refresh the coat and pants, she only had the one set that was warm enough for this weather. Better than nothing.

 

A knock at the door, “Zaile, your bath is ready.” Mirael.

 

“Thank you, I'm coming.” She grabbed the clothes, opened the door, and followed Mirael into a central room. It held a pool that was gently steaming in the cool air.

 

“I will leave you, Zaile. Please, take your time and use any of the items you care for,” she pointed out the soap and various bottles for the skin and hair.

 

“Thank you, Mirael, but I must hurry—the king gave me an hour. When I return I would be honored to linger in this beautiful place.” She thought to say if, but they had an agreement that bound him to half here—she would be back.

 

The bath was as lovely as it appeared, and just what she needed. She toweled off and quickly dressed, gathered her dirty clothes and headed to her room. Once she added the dirty items to her pack, she closed and locked it with the built in spell and then shouldered the heavy thing. She was a former girl scout and followed the always be prepared mantra. The pack even contained a solar generator—it was stocked for survival if not every comfort, though it had quite a few of those too.

 

Looking in the mirror, she considered her shortish hair. Everyone here had long hair and it was possible that having short hair was more than unfashionable. Her grandmother always told her she looked like a criminal when she decided to visit with short hair, and like Luthien when she rocked it really long. There was a definite difference in the way fey males looked at her too with long hair versus short. The spell was easy—she'd practiced it a lot to keep her grandmother happy when she visited. The first time she did the spell she grew out all her hair, _**all**_ of it, and had a good time horrifying her current guy. When he said he liked a girl in french braids, apparently french braided leg hair wasn't what he meant. The coven thought it was hilarious, and she reversed it after a day.

 

With a smile, she pictured Thranduil's reaction if she grew out all her hair, and then mentally sequenced the spell for head hair only. It was dumb. She shouldn't care what he thought at all as it was pretty clear he didn't find her remotely appealing—this morning was certainly proof of that. Stupid, this was pure foolishness but she wasn't used to being treated like she was invisible and unattractive. No male except for her cousin had ever spoken to her as he had this morning. It rankled. Besides, it wasn't as if he'd know the reason she grew it out and it would make her feel better. Maybe he'd be nicer too. Ugh. She did not care.

 

The spell would take some power, but she'd had a big breakfast and had time to eat some more before she left. She'd also ask Spade to help her and use her familiar's power to focus the spells. As soon as she thought it, Spade leapt purring onto her shoulder and crawled down into Zaile's waiting arms to snuggle like a baby, her furry belly to the sky.

 

“You are a weird cat.”

 

Spade just purred louder, and blinked her big blue eyes. Zaile felt the connection and cast the spell, feeling her hair sweep out and down to her knees in a thick silky wave of black. She left the hair loose, only reaching into her pack and calling up a sapphire and silver clip to hold the sides back and the hair out of her face. Looking in the mirror, she felt satisfied with her reflection though that much more tired from this additional use of magic. But it couldn't be that far to his halls, whatever those were, and if needed she could ride Spade. She'd prefer to keep Spade's abilities, as well as most of her own,

a secret, but if needed she could provide her own mount.

 

The main reason she tolerated Thranduil's rudeness, aside from his sheer attractiveness which was heart-poundingly _**considerable**_ , was her grandmother's advice of never, ever, reveal all you are capable of unless you have no choice. Though currently she was capable of little, Spade was more than capable of acting as her defender, at least against physical attack. But she'd prefer if everyone simply thought of Spade as an amusing pet and as nothing special for as long as possible. Thranduil had offered no risk to her while she danced so he would still think Spade nothing but a pet--she'd still been on cat form when she left the dance.

 

With a sigh, she shouldered her pack and headed out to deal with this odd moody king. He'd been so nice yesterday, even on the walk home though just as old-fashioned as her cousin. What was up with him? She walked into the kitchen and paused to drink a mug of milk and eat a few of the delicious morning rolls Mirael had made. She'd made a fruit filling with the berries from yesterday and they were perfectly delicious, so good, and the spell to grow her hair always left her ravenously hungry.

 

She saw Mirael come into the kitchen, saw her look of pity and realized Tauriel must have told her about the king's shitty mood. “I hope to return soon, Mirael, trust me, and...”

 

“You are always welcome here, Princess Zaile, it would be my honor.”

 

“Please, just call me Zaile. I know my lineage, I have nothing to prove and don't need a reminder. Zaile is plenty good for me.”

 

“As you wish, Zaile.”

 

Zaile hugged her, and at first the female was taken aback, and then she returned the embrace and patted her back like a child. She whispered quietly, “It will not be so bad, Zaile. He is not an evil king, just troubled. Return soon.”

 

“I will, as soon as I can. You can _**bet**_ on that.”

 

Mirael laughed quietly and pushed her toward the door. As she exited, she pulled the hood of her coat up—it was quite cold again and heading into evening. The sun was already down and the light was fading into darkness. She had nearly slept the day away, so perhaps he had some reason to complain. No, that was bullshit. He could have carried her inside instead of to his tent—he was just being an asshole.

 

Riding with him, he said. Honestly, she'd rather walk than deal with his shitty mood. She saw Tauriel and walked up to her.

 

“So, heading back to the halls? Are we marching?”

 

“You will ride with the king.”

 

“Yeah, can I just march or ride with you?”

 

Tauriel nodded, then said, “March, if he allows it, though it is a long march. We will check on a few settlements before we return and if you are unused to marching you may find it difficult. The king plans to return directly to the halls with the king's guards, so it would be a far shorter and far warmer ride to go with him.” She indicated a giant elk.

 

“He rides an elk? Seriously? Do you all ride elks? Is this a thing?”

 

Tauriel seemed amused, then said, “No, only the king.” She pointed to a herd of eight horses, saddled and waiting next to their riders, a particularly grim looking set of elves. “The king's personal guard ride horses, as do we all sometimes.”

 

“Tauriel, could I ride with one of the other guards. The king...”

 

“It would appear strange that you...”

 

“Fine. I get it. I'm stuck. I'll endure.” She briefly considered Spade as a mount, but decided she'd see how Thranduil behaved when he finally decided to show—she'd prefer to have him continue to think Spade harmless. Everyone was ready and simply waiting for him. It was full dark now, and growing colder. The ride would be the better choice, probably.

 

“Lady Zaile...”

 

“Just Zaile. I know who I am, I prefer Zaile.”

 

Tauriel sighed, then spoke to her sternly, “Zaile, it is a fairly short ride and he wishes to ensure your safety. He watched over you as you slept the entire day, and grew concerned when you did not wake at first light. Later in the day, you had a nightmare. You wept and spoke of battle and the dead, the king held you but you would not wake or be comforted, nor would you wake at my attempts to rouse you either. He thought to call the healers right before you awakened. Concern was likely the source of his foul mood. He is a difficult male, but not an evil one.” She paused, “I have had my own conflict with him, even left his service briefly. I chose to return because I remember the king he was before and I see the goodness there with the darkness. I will not abandon him to fall into the darkness.”

 

She felt embarrassed, humiliated they had seen her having a flashback from the contest. It did explain his mood a bit, though being nasty seemed a bad way to show his concern. And apparently he had his own struggles as well so perhaps he did not want to have to deal with hers. But he had, and he had carried her back after he decided she was too tired to walk. He was an asshole, but he did seem to consider her one of his people and under his care.

 

“I didn't know, Tauriel. I, I am sorry.”

 

Tauriel nodded, “He had seen a great deal of war. He would not judge you for your pain.” She sighed, “But he is difficult, always it is so now.”

 

Immediately after this, Thranduil emerged from the his tent and strode towards her. He didn't look angry, or cold, his face was neutral and reserved, a face for court. She could live with that, and schooled her own face into a bland neutrality.

 

“Lady Zaile, would you do me the honor of riding with me?” He bowed as he asked, and it was perfectly polite and courtly. There was no way for her to refuse and not offer an utterly unwarranted insult, especially as he had held and comforted her. Though why he wanted her to ride with him after his annoyance with her was a mystery. Maybe he felt obligated to ensure her safety, or it was some point of protocol for her to ride with him. It seemed fairly certain it was not out of any attraction to her. Not that she cared.

 

She replied, “It would be my honor, King Thranduil, to do so.”

 

He offered his arm and led her to the elk. As she grew closer, she could feel the life in it, and she wanted to pet it, greet it. Spade leapt up on her shoulder and then crawled into the hood of her cloak and she felt the heaviness of the little cat as she curled up to sleep.

 

She heard Thranduil's low laugh behind her, then, “Smart little beast, your cat.” He pulled her hair free from where it was caught under Spade and said, “Warm, and in your soft fragrant hair. There are worse places to sleep. The longer length is beautiful, your magic has many uses.”

 

 _ **Why**_ was he flirting with her? _**Was**_ he flirting with her? She had no idea so she said nothing.

 

He placed his hands around her waist and lifted her onto the elk like she weighed nothing, settled her in and then swung himself up and on behind her. His chest was hard against her back, his arms around her as he gripped the reins, and was it really necessary for his breath to be on her neck? She leaned forward and put an inch of distance between them but he closed it. Right as she was about to say something, he closed his arm around her and took off at a fast pace, his guard behind him.

 

Apparently realizing she was a good rider and in no danger of falling off, he eventually released her and then only held her when the elk was about to jump some obstacle. It was thrilling, the great beast under her and the ride through the dark. She felt the moon shine through the trees periodically and felt her power begin to return though she was still really tired. After a while, she began to fitfully doze—if this was short ride she'd hate to take a long one. He closed his arm around her, and she felt his breath against her hair as if he were kissing the top of her head or breathing her in. _Not likely_ was her last thought before she finally fell to a fitful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil felt her finally relax against him and closed his arm around her, felt her warmth against his fingers through the leather of his gloves and against his chest. Bending his head, he breathed in her scent—he could not help himself. Sweet, clean, so alive, elf and something more, and desire, he felt such desire for her she must be made of it. He was not the only one, he saw the way the other males glanced at her when they thought he was not looking. He felt increasingly certain that her kingly admirers had not been moved by her position and that she foolishly underestimated her effect on males.

 

This desire annoyed him, had been the source of his foul mood this morning, that and concern over how deeply she slept and how long. At first her sleep had seemed normal. He'd worked, glancing over from time to time to look upon her, feel that flash of desire and then return to work annoyed at himself and her. Then she had cried out in her sleep as if she were caught in a nightmare and had refused to wake when he brusquely called her name. He had stood, gone to the bed and knelt next to it, took her hand and felt her pulse race. That strange light had flickered over her again, and and seemed to flicker up his arms but subsided. He'd felt as if he had passed some sort of test, and that a danger had passed.

 

She would not wake, and her breathing had increased as she murmured about the dead, something about them all being dead and some battle that it seemed she had survived. He'd pulled her to his chest and held her, stroked her hair as she wept in her sleep. He had seen this in warriors, this pain, but not in one so young and so fair. He was furious with whoever had the responsibility of her protection and perhaps could better understand her determination to protect herself, to rely on herself—others had failed her.

 

Tauriel attempted to wake her to no avail as well. After a time, she subsided back into a deeper sleep but then she slept so long, unmoving regardless of what he did, said, how loud the camp was around her. He had been about to send to his halls for healers when she had finally woken and seemed _**fine**_. He'd been instantly angry with her, and then she had checked to see if he'd assaulted her in her sleep and he'd been _**furious**_. It had felt a slap in the face that she would imagine he would so debase himself or her as to take an incapacitated female regardless of how he might desire her. He was not some _**human**_.

 

Then she'd been so defiant, magnificent, insisting he call her Lady Zaile and turning his insult back on him. His fury had subsided into first a grudging respect and then amusement at her studied slight insult as she left. Definitely had spent time in court, and was willing and able to fight. Most elleths of her age were not this skilled or this strong. Perhaps she _**was**_ mature for one of her kind, though she was still _**ridiculously**_ young. It would be unseemly to court her and she would quite likely return to her own people in a year.

 

He began the ride over the bridge to the great doors, the surefooted elk making his way over the icy bridge. The doors opened and he rode through and sat for a moment, as loathe to release her as he was irritated that he felt such. She was asleep, as was her cat who had purred against his chest off and on throughout the ride, friendly little beast. Apparently it had accepted his words that he meant her no harm, and indeed it was the truth now. The river was no longer an option to keep her here, the idea of erasing such a vibrant being unacceptable. He would simply have to hope she found a place here. He motioned one of his guards over and carefully shifted her to the male's arms, then dismounted and took her back.

 

She looked sleepily up at him and grumpily said, “Put me down.” Her little cat hopped out of her hood and stretched, arching its back as it yawned and curled its little pink tongue. Both of them looked so deceptively harmless, though he knew they were not. It looked at him, blinked a slow blink, then sauntered over and rubbed against his boots. He raised his eyes at the temerity of the beast and he could have sworn he saw amusement in its blue eyes before it sauntered away, the tip of its high tail flicking cheekily. It was much like its mistress, he thought with a combination of irritation and amusement. Well, he was likely to be far less bored for a time at least.

 

He looked back down at her, smirked and said, “As you wish, my lady,” then set her on her feet rather suddenly. It was amusing to see her stumble a little until he wrapped one of his arms around her to steady her. Instead of thanking him, she glared at him and after a moment she stepped away to look around in awe at his halls. He found her blatant appreciation gratifying, and smiled slightly. Even in her ugly clothes, she was lovely, more so with her hair falling like a sheet of dark water to her knees. Too young for him, he would say it until his traitorous body received the message of his wiser mind. There were elleths closer to his own age he could court in a seemly manner now she had awoken him. Surely he could find desire for one of them and not resort to molesting an infant? He sighed. His body remained the traitor it had been since he had seen her dance. It was tiresome, this desire, and insistent. He would not bend to it.

 

She looked inquiringly at him and he thought to offer her his arm. He'd had chambers prepared for her within the royal quarters as a royal guest. “Come. I will take you to your quarters. After you refresh yourself, and I as well, we will have a late dinner. Should you need anything, a guard will be posted outside your door and they will send for it.”

 

“A guard? Am I a prisoner?” Her voice was challenging, but under it was fear.

 

“No. The halls are expansive and it is quite simple for a guest to become lost in them. The guard is there to escort you to whereever you wish to go and to ensure you can find your way back. After a few weeks, once you are more used to the halls, you may choose to dismiss the guard if you wish.”

 

She nodded, seemed a bit more at ease and then asked, “Could I have the guard I wished. At least sometimes?”

 

“Who would you have as guard?” The youth, Galasson came to mind.

 

“Tauriel.”

 

He felt relief, then annoyance—it should make no difference to him if she had requested Galasson. He was certainly of a more suitable age for her if _**far**_ below her in status. But he was glad she felt a kinship with Tauriel, and not surprised—both were far too outspoken for their ages.

 

“She is captain of the guard and a diplomatic envoy to the dwarves, but I will ensure that she is available as much as possible to escort you.” And he would see Galasson positioned _**elsewhere**_ , for the youth's own good. Thranduil knew himself to be jealous, and jealousy led to rage, and rage would lead to violence—he knew his temper well. Until he could learn to manage this unseemly desire, or even better it faded or moved to a more appropriate target, he would seek to minimize situations sure to provoke his jealousy and temper. That would only be wise, and was his sole motive for positioning Galasson at the very far reaches of his kingdom. It had nothing to do with her affections, not at all.

 

“Thank you.” She smiled at him and he nodded.

 

They neared the royal section and his guards stood at attention at his approach. They opened the doors and he led her through, past the central open area with the great reflecting pool and into the guest area. He nodded to the guard posted at her door, a married female elf, and she opened the door to the suite.

 

“Your quarters,” he said, as he motioned her inside then followed her. He left the door open for propriety, though he should not have followed her at all.

 

“This is an area for relaxing, you will find wine, fruit, and bread here should you desire.” He followed her through to the next chamber, the bedroom, and averted his eyes from her bed lest his thoughts become unsuitable. More unsuitable.

 

“Through this door you will find a bathing chamber and for other necessities. The guard can assist you should any of this be strange to you.”

 

“It's beautiful, thank you.”

 

She looked up at him, and he stepped closer. He wanted to be closer still, and cursed his traitorous body, “There are clothes suited to your rank in the wardrobe, though you may wear what you please to table this evening. An attendant will come to assist you in a moment. The guard will fetch you in an hour.”

 

With that he turned on his heel and left, striding out to make arrangements of his own. He had the kitchens to rouse, a bath to take and clothes to select—an hour was hardly enough though his people were skilled and used to his odd hours. The dinner would be excellent. Sweets. He must be sure to request an array of sweets, the wine she preferred, and coffee. His kitchens had never failed him and it was quite likely the chefs had a store of such in the faint possibility he might ask for it one day.

 

He reached his own quarters and his steward was there. “Have the kitchens prepare a meal, ready in an hour, a variety of dishes that showcase the skill of this realm. Breads, cheeses, and an array of desserts and sweets. Coffee, the best wine. The table is to be set for an intimate dinner, not formal.” His steward nodded, then left to relay his orders to the kitchen. Tauriel's second, Maedil, came in.

 

“The spiders, have they made further incursions such as the one at Mirael's?”

 

“No, my lord. In fact they seem to have withdrawn closer to Dol Guldur than we have seen in years. The land feels different in the west, cleaner, newer, I do not understand it but the spiders seem to sense it too and have been pushed back by it.”

 

That was excellent news indeed. Perhaps a gift might be suitable to thank her.

 

“And the orcs? Any other incursions or concerns to report?”

 

“No, my lord.”

 

“Tell Tauriel to attend to the Lady Zaile when her duties allow it. Also, tell the steward to fetch hair ornaments for my consideration, ones set with emeralds, diamonds, or other green or white stones.”

 

“I will do so, my lord.”

 

He waved him away and retired to the bath. After washing, he allowed his attendants to dry his hair and selected a pale gray tunic with fine silver embroidery, dark gray leather pants, a black silk undershirt with a low peaked collar that would barely show under the tunic, and dark gray leather boots with silver embroidery around the tops that matched the tunic. Over this he chose a deep royal blue velvet robe—the halls could be chill in winter.

 

He considered the choices the steward presented him and finally settled on the one that seemed most to fit her. A hair clip fashioned of intricate patterns of mithril set with small diamonds and a single emerald the size of a man's thumbnail at the center of the pattern. A bar fastened to the other side of the clip to hold the hair in place much like the sapphire one she wore now, but this was finer and matched the emerald necklace she wore. The gift would be an act of good faith for her service, which had been priceless. Mere days and already a difference that was obvious in the tenor of the land.

 

He handed the choice to the steward and said, “In a jewelry box made of the wood of this realm.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

He sauntered to her rooms and waited for the guard to notify her of his presence. After a moment, she emerged and he was briefly speechless. She wore a long gown of palest green silk with a modestly scooped neckline embroidered in silver. Her feet were fitted in silver slippers and she wore a robe of deep forest green velvet over the gown. Cascading over her shoulders in dark waves, her hair was a shiny black waterfall. He did not think he had ever seen a more beautiful maiden. Holding out his arm, he was pleased to see she seemed similarly speechless at his appearance.

 

Leading her towards the informal dining room, the one for close family meals or small meetings, he said, “The chef has prepared a variety of dishes, to be followed by sweets and wine. It may be a truly astounding array, he tends to present many choices when unsure as to the tastes of the guest. Please, eat your fill but do not feel obligated to try everything.”

 

She looked heartened especially at the prospect of sweets, and said, “I'm starving. I think I'll be able to make the chef proud.”

 

“Based on how you vanquished dinner last night, especially the desserts, I am inclined to agree,” he said dryly.

 

She smiled and said as they arrived at the room, “It is said, _Powerful magic creates a powerful appetite, for food, for drink, for sleep, and for_ ,” she paused and blushed. He knew instantly the rest of the saying and was both intrigued and amused at her embarrassment.

 

“For?” he asked teasingly. “Finish your explanation, Lady Zaile.”

 

“Intimacy.”

 

“Ah.” He looked at her as she blushed fiercely and thought she was quite innocent. That naivety united with her raw sensuality made for a heady combination. It was not making his determination to _**not**_ court her any easier.

 

They ate together and exchange pleasantries, but it was not the ease of yesterday evening. She seemed to be holding some resentment over their exchange of the morning. Eventually they were lingering over the wine. Taking the bottle and his glass, he said, “We have a greenhouse of sorts here that is warmed by a hot spring. Even in winter, it is warm and soothing. We will take our wine there.”

 

She looked to disagree, but then seemed to think better of it. Perhaps the wine was allowing her to relax, though she was far more careful of her drinking tonight. Likely wise.

 

He led her to the garden, and sat on a comfortable wooden couch easily large enough for two. It had a tall carved back and was piled with pillows. He set the wine pitcher on a small table facing the couch and reclined languidly after filling his glass and hers. After a moment, she sat on the far side of the bench and reclined against the pillows opposite him, drinking her wine and looking up at the stars visible through the distant skylight. He caught her glancing at him from time to time and knew that she found him attractive, though he found it hard to believe it was the equal of his desire for her. A desire he would _**not**_ act on.

 

“It's beautiful here, and peaceful.” Her voice sounded relaxed, a bit sleepy.

 

“I hope you will think of it as your home.”

 

She looked at him and arched a brow, “My home?” Her voice sounded disbelieving.

 

“For now.”

 

She looked at him inquiringly, as if she could not quite figure him out. “Ok.”

 

“Zaile. I have something for you, as a thank you for what you have already done for Mirael and my lands.” He took out the box from an interior pocket of his robe and presented it to her. “It is my wish you wear this and know you have the gratitude of your king.”

 

Her brow wrinkled and then she opened the box and sighed with surprised pleasure at the contents. She took out the hair clip, examined the design and then looked at him, genuinely smiling for the first time since last night, and said, “This is beautiful. Thank you, King Thranduil.”

 

“Thranduil. If it is just us, I would ask you to call me Thranduil. I only demand your respect in front of my people. I accept that customs are different in your realm and will honor them when it will not affect my authority in this one.” Lie. He wished to hear her name on his lips as a lover would say it. He was a fool. An old fool beguiled by her youth and beauty.

 

She paused, seemed about to say something, then looked at him and simply said, “Thranduil, thank you.”

 

“May I place it in your hair?” A fool _**determined**_ to torture himself.

 

Smiling, she turned and presented her back to him, “I suppose it is acceptable to turn your back on a king if it is at his request?”

 

“Of course. All any king wishes is the obedience of his subjects.”

 

She laughed, and he began to braid the sides of her hair into two plaits that he joined at the back with the clip. It was beautiful in her dark hair and he was pleased to see this small token of his on her.

 

They drank together in companionable silence, and after quite a while he saw her eyes fall closed. Full red lips tempted him, the rise and fall of her breast in sleep, and after some time he stood and picked her up to carry her to her chambers.

 

“I _**can**_ walk,” she said tartly, “this carrying thing of yours is becoming a habit.”

 

He glanced down to see she was awake after all, or had awoken when he stood.

 

“Perhaps I do not want to let you go.”

 

She looked away from him, her cheeks flaming at his words. If she could sense or read his thoughts, they would flame far more. At the exit from the gardens, he set her on her feet and offered his arm. She took it and allowed him to lead her to her chambers, her hand plucking at his sleeve in clear nervousness. No doubt she was confused by his behavior, at first rejecting her and then courting her. So be it, he would not explain himself. He was king here, and would amuse himself if he so chose, or not—he owed no one an explanation for any of his actions.

 

They arrived at her chambers and the guard opened the door. She turned and before he could say anything she said, “Thank you, King Thranduil for the tour of the gardens and my first payment. I look forward to you showing me the library tomorrow. Good night, my king.” She bowed and stepped back, clearly dismissing him but doing so without violating any protocol. He was amused at her courtly skill, if annoyed at her directing it toward him.

 

“As you say, Lady Zaile. Welcome to the Woodland Realm. Sleep well.” He turned on his heel and left. Tomorrow would offer new chances for them to spar. He found himself looking forward to the new day-- for the first time in very many years he had something new to puzzle over, and an unpredictable combatant to cross swords with.

 

* * *

 

Zaile caught the guard smiling slightly at Thranduil stalking away and smiled back at her. They had a moment of female understanding between them, and then the guard's face returned to a proper neutrality.

 

“Hello, my name is Zaile, just Zaile please, and it is lovely to meet you.”

 

The guard looked surprised at her informality and then said, “I am Marigal, and am at your service this night.”

 

“Will you wake me up in the morning?”

 

“If you wish, though there is no obligation to awaken at any certain time.”

 

“What time is breakfast?”

 

“Whenever you please. The king will likely be busy until late in the day, but you can request whatever you like.”

 

“Is there a place I can eat with others, a hall?”

 

Marigal seemed somewhat taken aback, but then said, “The nobility normally take their meals in their suites. But if you so desire, you may eat in the guard's hall, or the kitchen, or there is a hall for guests but you are currently the only one.”

 

“The kitchen or guard's hall sounds great. Please wake me an hour before the normal time everyone eats.”

 

“Yes, Zaile, as you wish.”

 

She walked into her quarters and saw the attendant, Lileal waiting for her. She helped her undress and then followed her into the bathing chamber and explained the use of the facilities. Zaile wanted nothing more than a long bath and bed, though Spade likely needed a dish of meat. The cat would use the same facilities as here, as long as she left the door open and the lid up. Who would have thought they had a primitive version of flush toilets here? There was some magic involved, she felt it but wasn't sure exactly what it did. Perhaps it sent the sewage to the domain of some enemy, an amusing if impractical idea.

 

Lileal left quietly and Zaile relaxed in the bath. Feeling herself starting to doze, she got out, dried off, and donned the gown and robe she had been provided, as well as her own underwear—theirs were some loose shorts that just seemed weird. Earlier she had been offered some sort of breast band and had seen Lileal's interest when she saw her bra. They'd had a discussion about it, what underwire was, and Lileal had been impressed with the beauty and support of the garment, taking notes for her own experimentation. She'd been too tired to mess with it, but later when she unpacked a portion of her pack she'd let Lileal borrow a few and see better how they were constructed.

 

Spade padded in and cried—she would definitely need a bowl of meat for her. She put on the slippers she'd been given and walked to the door.

 

Marigal faced her, “My lady?”

 

“I need a bowl of raw meat or fish, or a combination of both, about this much,” she showed Marigal a large bowl she had found in her quarters. Spade had a large appetite because she was a bigger cat than she looked, far bigger, and Zaile would need to figure out a way to keep her fed if she wouldn't be able to hunt. She thankfully didn't have to eat as much as the size she could reach, but she still ate about 30-40 times as much as a normal cat, about 8-10lbs of meat a day, which was a _**lot.**_ “It's for my cat.”

 

Spade walked out, mewed, and Marigal looked at the bowl, then the cat, then her, clearly disbelieving this was possible.

 

“Yes, really. I'll let you watch her eat it. It's pretty amazing.”

 

“Indeed. I'll fetch you some immediately.”

 

“May I come with you?”

 

“Ah, your garments, they are not.”

 

“Ok, got it. This is not revealing in my land.” The gown came to her knees and the robe to her ankles—it was positively modest. Elves apparently had a real thing for modesty in this realm. She watched as Marigal headed away, presumably towards the kitchen. There was a small bench in the corridor close to her door, it seemed as good a place as any to await her. Pulling her robe around herself so as not to disturb anyone with a view of her calves—hilarious thought—she looked around and felt amazed at the turn her life had taken.

 

It had been intensely satisfying to turn away the king when he had so clearly planned to follow her in. That hot and cold bullshit was player 101, and she hated games with a passion. Looks like celibacy was on the menu for a while, though doubtless if Thranduil continued to pursue her she'd give in sooner or later. But on the same day he sneered at her? Nope, regardless of how nice her supposed pay. The hair clip had been lovely, and she'd take it, but it felt a little like being paid off to put up with him being an asshole. That was a very slippery slope indeed, and one she had zero intention of sliding down at all.

 

If he would just be pleasant and respectful of her as a person, she gladly invite him in. You'd think after all those years he'd have that figured out about females, though as a king, a _**smoking hot**_ king, he probably could get away with behaving as he pleased and still have females all over him. Hell, she might end up putting up with it herself after a few months of nothing. But not tonight. Spade jumped up on the bench and she petted her, the cat rubbing against her hand as she watched her.

 

A long fingered hand griped her chin and tilted her face up, “Why are you lurking in the corridor?” She saw Thranduil, dressed for bed himself in linen shirt and pants with a rust red velvet robe.

 

“I am hardly _**lurking**_. I need to feed my cat.”

 

Thranduil's eyebrows raised and he said, “I take it that is why your guard is gone and that you have not slain her and tucked the body in your chambers?”

 

She laughed, “No, your guard is safe.” She saw Marigal head around the corner with a massive bowl of meat.

 

“ _ **That**_ is for your cat? Surely you jest?”

 

“Nope. Watch and see.”

 

Marigal set the bowl on the ground. Honestly, it _**was**_ ridiculous next to Spade—a pile of raw meat twice as big as her. Spade set too with a will and gobbet after gobbet quickly disappeared until the bowl was empty. Finally, she sat back and began to clean her fur.

 

“Apparently powerful magic does create quite the appetite.”

 

She looked at him. Did he know about Spade? He seemed to know she wasn't an ordinary cat, though her eating made that evident. Spade sauntered over, considered them both, then leapt on the lap of the king and settled in to purr.

 

“Your beast is as presumptuous as you.” His voice was drolly disapproving.

 

“Oh, no, she is much more so. I _**certainly**_ would not sit on your lap without an invitation.” As soon as the quip came out of her mouth she clasped her hands over her face and blushed beet red, utterly horrified she had said it out loud. The face of the guard was stunned, the more so as she heard Thranduil's bark of surprised laughter and then his continued laughter at her embarrassment.

 

“I regret, King Thranduil, I..”

 

“Be still, Lady Zaile, I quite comprehend your meaning and Marigal is no gossip. No harm has been done.” He smirked at her, “I am glad my lap is safe from your depredations if not your little beast's.”

 

“Spade. Her name is Spade.”

 

“Like the tool? That is a curious choice for such a noble beast.” He was petting Spade, and seemed to be enjoying her purr as well as the feel of her fur. Somehow, he managed to still look utterly imperious while doing it.

 

“Like the playing card,” he looked at her curiously and she realized that they might not have that game.

“It is a game of numbers. One of the set of numbers has a black symbol called a spade. I picked that name because she is good luck and is black. Not all witches are as lucky as me in the familiar that chooses them.”

 

“She chose you?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Hmmm. And now she has chosen me. How interesting.”

 

He had a point. It was unusual for Spade to be this friendly with others, but not that unusual. She liked her grandmother, her cousin the king, some of the witches in the coven, and Artemis. She looked at him and blushed again as she noticed how his thin linen tunic and pants did nothing to hide the muscular planes of his body. He should pull his robe more tightly around him as opposed to leaving it wide open for the world to see him. What? What was she thinking? It was not like she hadn't seen many attractive men completely shirtless and now this ancient and incredibly patriarchal king was affecting her because she saw him in some pajamas? Ugh.

 

She looked up to see him regarding her with some amusement and _**knew**_ he had caught her checking him out. He smirked, his eyes positively sparkling with amusement, then stood and bowed. Spade leapt up to her lap and settled back in.

 

“Good night, Lady Zaile, I hope your rest is peaceful.” He then sauntered down the corridor and it was clear that this match had gone to him.

 

She glared at his back until he turned the corner and then looked to the guard who seemed surprised but pleased at the exchange.

 

“I will say nothing of any of this, Zaile. Our king has his moods.” She paused in thought, then added, “Though you seem to amuse him. That will likely be good for him.” She bowed her head in what seemed like thanks.

 

Regardless if he was an occasional asshole, his people, at least his guard, loved him. That said he was by and large a very good king if a difficult person. She wondered what the reason was for his moodiness? Tauriel had hinted he had a good one. Maybe he would tell her in time. She was surprised at how curious she felt about him and looked forward to both the library and seeing him tomorrow.

 

She shrugged, and then said, “I guess so. He's definitely not boring.”

 

Marigal laughed in surprise, then said, “No, he isn't that.”

 

“Thank you for your help with Spade,” she walked toward her chambers and smiled as Marigal closed the door behind her with a, “Sleep well,” as the door shut.

 

Settling into her bed, she rather thought she would sleep well tonight. At least she hoped so.

 

 

 


	6. A Hell Beast and Some Unpacking

 

Thranduil had slept well, but the day had been poor. First, one of his hunters had been injured in another spider attack. He would live, but it highlighted the increasing boldness of the creatures as it had happened very near to one of the larger settlements. He planned to request Zaile to use her magic to repel them toward a less populated area when he took her to the library later, assuming this interminable day ever ended. Marigal had reported that Zaile slept well and had taken her breakfast in the guard's hall. That had created something of a stir with all the elves curious about the newcomer. Apparently she had chosen to wear something called jeans and a thing called a hoodie. The garments were apparently modest but astonishingly ugly for one of the nobility. The guards had no idea what to make of this newcomer and her choice to dine there, and so the hall was largely silent.

 

It hadn't bothered her at all. She ate heartily, thanked the cooks, insisted on helping with cleanup to the consternation of literally everyone, and then cheerfully asked to go back to the gardens. Apparently she was still there with her silver device listening to music and reading, at least that is what Badhor thought she was doing with the device. He would ask her about it later, he was deeply curious and wished he was there to ask as opposed to here. Honestly, anywhere would be preferable to here right now. Few things bored him more than trade delegations and the absolute worst were dwarf trade delegations and the absolute worst of those were the ones from the Iron Hills.

 

Thranduil eyed the arriving delegation from the Iron Hills with distaste. As far as he was concerned, the only good thing to come out of those hills was Dain Ironfoot, and even this was questionable. The envoy would likely be incredibly boring and longwinded, and invariably pushed until he became, or pretended to become, viciously angry out of some foolish belief that they hadn't gotten the best deal possible until they had completely infuriated him. It was amazingly tiresome and did not get them the best deal—quite the opposite in fact. You'd think they would compare with Erebor and realize that dealing with Tauriel would get them far more of what they wanted at less cost, but no, they insisted on paying more for less apparently for the privilege of having him sneer at them, perverse creatures.

 

He looked up from the arriving delegation and their escort to see Zaile's little cat trotting across the bridge towards them. His guard seemed unsure of what to do about such a tiny harmless looking being. Thranduil waved his hand to indicate no action was required and watched with hooded eyes as the beast wove around the dwarves and hopped up the steps to his throne to look up at him inquiringly several steps below his feet. Smart beast. He rather thought it was waiting for permission to climb on his lap. Amusing to think so anyway, and so little else had been amusing today at all.

 

“Is that yer pet, Thranduil? That wee little pussy cat?” One of the delegation said and laughed mockingly. The cat turned, puffed out into a ball, hissed and leapt onto the dwarf and scratched four bloody lines down his forehead and cheek. The dwarf let out a genuinely satisfying string of curses as the cat dodged any and all retribution, ran back up Thranduil's steps and again waited several steps below his feet, looking up expectantly. It truly did seem to be waiting for an invitation, and after that thoroughly enjoyable display, he was willing to give one. He laconically gestured for her to ascend and she hopped up on his lap, turned to face the dwarves and hissed viciously.

 

“Spade is a companion of a guest of the realm and is no one's _**pet**_. She is not fond of such insulting terms, master dwarf.” This should prove amusing.

 

“Bloody hell, that hell beast near took out me eye.”

 

Spade growled and hissed again as Thranduil stroked her back. He had the strangest feeling the cat understood the dwarf. “Perhaps if such a small combatant can take it, you do not deserve it.”

 

“Is this the hospitality you offer us, Thranduil? Insults?”

 

Those scratches looked painful, deep and bloody, though only a warning at most. He'd seen her true form—she could have done far worse. It deeply pleased him to have such a powerful beast choose him. Her instant dislike of the dwarf and refusal to allow the slightest insult go unanswered confirmed his approval of her as well. She was a suitable companion, provided she had the good sense to continue to refrain from shedding on him. There had been a decided lack of hair on his garments last night which confirmed this indeed was a magical cat. He was fond of cats, but not of hair on his garments.

 

He stroked the little cat's back, listening to her purr, “Are you frightened of her, master dwarf? Perhaps it will lead you to make more reasonable demands.” That should just about do it.

 

He watched cold eyed, but with a deep interior amusement and satisfaction, as the delegation stormed out of his throne room shouting about his insults and other drivel. He would send Tauriel to parlay with them and hopefully it would be the last time he had to deal with them again. He looked down at the cat, petted her laconically, and decided that he was rather fond of this little beast. The dwarf should consider himself lucky to have escaped with such a minor wound.

 

The dwarf delegation was his final business of the day. It was too early for dinner, but he had worked through lunch and was quite hungry. He would retire to his chambers and eat. Or, he looked down at the little cat who looked up at him and blinked her huge blue eyes, he could retire to the garden and eat with Zaile. The kitchen could easily prepare and deliver a meal there as well as his quarters. He sighed in annoyance. He should stay away from her except for her tour of the library. He had dreamed of her last night, repeatedly, and his dreams were decidedly inappropriate.

 

This morning he had dined with four beautiful elleths, all unattached, all over the age of 500, and all an appropriate choice. Their manners had been perfect, their conversation perfect, their demeanor perfectly agreeable. The entire experience had been a perfection of boredom. He had struggled to remain civil and had excused himself at the first reasonable opportunity. Apparently, his desire was so far limited to an entirely inappropriate target, though it had been quite a limited choice at this morning's breakfast. Beautiful but entirely too agreeable for him—he preferred a little fire now apparently as opposed to his former wife's cold perfection.

 

A celebration, he would hold a winter feast and issue an open invitation to the elves of Imladris and Lothlorien. He doubted many would come given the dangers of these days, but some might. It would hearten his people as well to see their king so unconcerned about the growing threat around them. Good for morale, and good to test and see if he felt anything for anyone but her. He hadn't held such a large and open celebration since his former wife's rejection of him and perhaps some would come out of curiosity if nothing else. Wizards being wizards, he felt quite certain his marriage status was well known so that may bring some as well, and some of the absolute wrong sort. He would be patient this time and wait and see, not be blinded by beauty, desire, and fair seeming words. He had eternity and had learned from the haste of his youth.

 

If she were willing to stay in his kingdom, or if a way could be made to join their worlds, he might wait for Zaile to fully mature. 250-300 was young, but of an age to know one's own mind, to be certain of what one wanted and not subject to the manipulation of another or one's own flesh. 52 was a fingernail clipping of an age, nothing, one was barely even aware at that age. He could wait for her to fully mature, a few hundred years was little in his life after all. Waiting until these dark days resolved themselves certainly seemed wise as well, though her realm might prove useful should he need to lead his people to safety in the event Sauron achieved preeminence. It was possible. Men were weak compared to the early days, and there were far fewer elves of any power. The Valar were not disposed to aid them besides the help they sent in the form of the Istari. His kingdom was well fortified, but should Lothlorien and Erebor fall, he might be very glad indeed of an alliance with Zaile's kingdom.

 

First, he would need to lay the groundwork for such an alliance. Discover what his kingdom had to offer her cousin's as well as precisely who her cousin the king might be. Identify her grandmother and any other of these Ettuli he might know or that might have connections to others in his kingdom. Politics. He would definitely join her. She was likely looking for Spade which provided the pretext for his visit, and he thought she might find the story of the ill-fated dwarf encounter amusing.

 

* * *

 

Zaile had slept well and woken early. Breakfast had been delicious if quiet. She rather thought the fey here hadn't know what to think of her. They were nice, but really standoffish. She might consider wearing some of their clothes next time, but they just weren't as comfortable as jeans and a hoodie, not at all. Last night's gown had left her feeling like she was going to a formal dinner and it just seemed like overkill to dress like that for breakfast. Maybe she could find some middle ground between the clothes in her closet and the ones from her realm, maybe something like what the female guards wore? Those seemed acceptable if still not the best substitute for her well worn jeans. It might not matter, or even have been the clothes. When Thranduil took her to the library at some point she felt sure he would tell her if her clothes were somehow outrageous, probably even if she didn't ask.

 

After breakfast, she'd had a good time reading and listening to music in the garden. Spade had run off somewhere, which made her slightly nervous, but she had good judgment as to what she could get away with and how far to push the limits. Also, the cat would give her a heads up about any hidden dangers she found, or any pertinent news she heard. She was an absolutely excellent spy and would usually share her perceptions at night while Zaile slept but could communicate immediately if necessary, though the method was unpleasant. She'd bite Zaile and show her through the blood bond—no fun but it had saved her life a couple of times.

 

Now she was back in her rooms for an afternoon snack. She wasn't that hungry as Badhor had brought her a lovely lunch in the garden without her saying anything, but she was peckish and knew she desperately needed to organize her ridiculously heavy pack. Having agreed to split time between Mirael's manor and Thranduil's halls, she wasn't sure how long she was staying here, but after a couple of months on the road her pack was pretty full of stuff, some stuff she probably didn't even remember sticking in there. Pulling it out of the corner, she wished she had a nice open area to do this in. Some of it might not be very clean, especially as she had done a bit of starshine gem mining in the goblin realm and still had the load of giant pearl oysters she had received from the merfolk of Lir.

 

The two were linked. Her first quest had been to help the merfolk peaceably dislodge the goblins from their realm. They'd opened a portal and began siphoning out the merfolk's clean water and pouring in absolute filth in return. This was a pretty easy call as to what was just and fair. She selected a date the realm of the merfolk had a full moon so she had plenty of power to clean the water and shut down the goblin's floating settlement. At first they'd looked to fight, which would have violated her agreement with the pacifist merfolk, but then she'd just dropped down a single thin waterspout and the goblins started packing. The merfolk hadn't been pleased at first, but by the time she finished they were happy indeed.

 

As she listened to the goblins, she realized that this had not been an act of greed so much as desperation. Their own realm was so polluted that they had no drinkable water and very little foodstuffs would grow. They had finally learned their lesson about not respecting the environment, but it appeared to them to be too late. Home of the only source of starshine gems, their realm had slowly become more and more polluted from the detritus of heavy industry—goblins had no magic and generally spurned it's use. The realm had five moons, at least one full at all times and often the equivalent to two—plenty of power to do nearly anything. She cut a deal to restore their realm for them in exchange for a permit to mine for starshine gems for a week with a series of oath bound guides who would lead her to the best known places to find them.

 

They had hesitated, to release any gems at all was a crushing weight to them and they generally only sold the absolute minimum of the poorest quality gems. Still, they decided, she was a weak female—goblins were probably the single most sexist community ever—and would likely find the work far too hard. She made sure the agreement included her cat Spade, which made them laugh out loud, and the right to for them to work the entire 32 hour day of their realm for the entire seven days. That had sent them into peals of laughter, and they had assured her that, “mining was far harder work than witchery.” She nodded, admitted she had never mined, but simply wanted the option to work as often as she could. More laughter, and then they had agreed and everyone had vowed to the Lore.

 

She had been pretty sure she was going to take them to the cleaners finding gems, plus they didn't seem bad people despite the ridiculous blind spots that sexism and ignorance of magic gave them, so she didn't just clean their realm. Any residual seeds sprouted and she accelerated their growth so forests sprung up where no forests had been for hundreds of years. Streams ran clean and burbled as opposed to greasily oozing, the air was clean of smog and the clouds white. Grass spread over the land, flowers bloomed, and with the exception of the areas the goblins lived in and the mines, the realm was restored to nature. She cleaned the mines and their living areas of pollution, but figured they'd not like a giant tree in the middle of their streets.

 

Even after she found several huge and gorgeous starshine gems they still thought they had gotten a bargain. Zaile would have done it for free, they were so happy it made her happy, and the merfolk were so pleased at the peaceful and good resolution that they gave her the finest pearl producing oysters they currently had. She had to open them herself though, because if they found a pearl they would not be able to surrender it. Such was their great love for the gem that they could only relinquish the oysters they _**might**_ be in. No one but her had been willing to trust the merfolk to pick oysters likely to have a pearl, or do the job on the possibility they might have nothing but a really good meal for them and about fifty of their friends. They had given her a LOT of giant oysters, most of the weight of her pack was that load, and she hoped her pack's preservation spell was up to the job or that would be a truly filthy process of opening the shells and getting the pearls. The pack didn't stink when she opened it, so she felt pretty safe.

 

She really needed to do this outside though, and now that she had a break wanted to find out what, if anything, she'd gained from her aid to them. Looked like Thranduil was still busy so she'd ask the guard, Badhor, if he would lead her somewhere outside next to water where she could clean out her pack. The pool by Mirael's would be perfect, but she was sure they'd have something like this here—there was water everywhere in this cave system so there had to be water outside too. Or maybe they had a place in here that was big enough for her to spread out and get to work? Outside would be better. Her solar generator was big and had a nearly full charge, but eventually she'd need to set it and it's panels outside in bright sun for it to recharge. There was no hurry, she had enough power to recharge her laptop completely at least for a couple of weeks, but she liked to plan ahead.

 

She shouldered her pack and headed for the door. Opening it, she greeted Badhor, “Hey, I need to clean out my pack. It holds far more than it looks and is really dirty. I'd like to go outside next to a body of water to clean it.”

 

“I can escort you there, Zaile, but you are free to use your quarters as you please.”

 

“No, really, it's very dirty and holds a truly amazing amount. Somewhat you do cleaning would be best, maybe where you clean the the kills from hunts or where you clean fish?”

 

Badhor's eyebrows rose, “You wish me to escort you to the slaughter house?”

 

“No, not, ok, does your realm eat oysters?”

 

Badhor looked confused then replied, “Yes, they are a rare delicacy. But their transport is difficult and expensive, even the king rarely indulges in them.”

 

“Ok, I have a huge load of oysters in here that I need to clean, far more than you would ever think this pack could hold. Take me where I could best clean them and where they would not go to waste.”

 

“That would be the kitchens.”

 

“Are they big, with a large area to work and spread out?

 

“Yes, quite so, though the cooks will likely be beginning the preparations for the evening meal very soon.”

 

“Ok, maybe I should talk to your head chef then, or your kitchen manager. I have these oysters as payment for the pearls they hopefully contain, but if your chef can make use of the flesh I can shuck them there.”

 

Badhor looked at the pack, looked at her, and then clearly just decided to follow orders and take her where she wanted to go. She followed him up stone stairs and over bridges and through winding halls carved beautifully in stone. Thranduil really had given her a guard to help her get around—this place was huge and would be impossible for her to navigate. It was also a remarkably defensible fortress with multiple sections that would force the enemy to breach multiple walls all while receiving fire from well protected archers from above. It the enemy somehow managed to tunnel in and enter from above, the top sections looked to be dependent on supports from below—they could collapse them and then slaughter any of the enemy that survived the fall. The enemy would then be forced to rappel into the halls, making them easy prey for the archers again. It was a genius design, and raised her estimation of Thranduil as a canny king.

 

A hot, smart, warrior king--a triple threat if there ever was one. He must not have met his mate yet, because there was no logical reason she could see for him to be single. She'd assumed he was, but did she actually know? Customs were different in other realms. He could be estranged from his mate or she could simply be away. Sometimes Maglor took off for a couple of months away from his valkyrie wife, wandering along the beach having what looked to her very much like a massive pity party over things he'd done literally thousands of years ago. She didn't really get it, but it seemed to be tied up in the general freak out they had over oaths. Neither he nor her grandmother had gone into detail, but it seemed he'd made an oath that brought ruin on a lot of people a very long time ago.

 

She supposed she could understand that a little better now, after she had killed. The nightmares were fueled by her regret that she hadn't had enough control over her powers to at least spare the Companions. But in a choice over them dead versus Artemis, she'd make that same choice over and over again. They knew exactly the risk they were taking, as did she. But apparently what her cousin did was a whole lot worse, and it had been to recover some stupid gems and not to protect anything but pride. If she'd killed for that reason, well, then she probably would feel the same guilt as him. She didn't understand why he'd sworn such a stupid oath to begin with frankly. While she was here she planned to research the history of her family and hopefully better understand them. The older generation, the original Ettuli, were a grimly serious and sorrowful lot. Each subsequent generation was less grim until you got to hers which was basically the same as the other Immortals, though with somewhat better morals.

 

They had arrived at the kitchens. Badhor brought her to the head chef and explained she had a pack full of oysters. The chef looked dubiously at the pack, until Zaile cheerfully explained it was a magic pack that preserved anything you put in it. Then the chef looked even more dubiously and arched an eyebrow at her as if she were here to sell him some inferior goods. Time for the show to the tell.

 

“May I use this sink?”

 

“Of course.”

 

It was a huge sink, half the size of a bathtub with a pump handle for water. She set her pack on the floor, reach in and brought out an oyster the size of a serving platter, still wet and obviously alive.

 

The chef's eyebrows rose further, and then as she split the shell open with her pocket knife, removed the thumb sized golden pearl and handed him the shell with the oyster, he looked suspicious and then delighted. She held up the pearl, “I took them for payment for these, but I thought you might want the meat. If not, I'll eat what I can and discard the rest. It's delicious, but I have a LOT of these.”

 

He held the oyster to his nose, then cut it loose from the shell and examined it. Did he think it poisoned? With a sigh, she reached in her pack and pulled out the hot sauce and cut it in four portions—it was huge. She sprinkled it with hot sauce and ate two of the portions, then said, “It's good. The sauce is spicy though, but my kin like it so you might too.” Who didn't like Cholula?

 

He took a bite and exclaimed, “This is delicious. You have more?”

 

“A lot more.”

 

* * *

 

She was not in the garden, nor at her quarters and neither was Badhor. This had already been a trying day, he was hungry, and now he felt quite annoyed to have to search for her. Spade trotted happily alongside him, and while he was fine with the cat's company he rather wanted to speak with her mistress and have a look at that mysterious silver rectangle that seemed to be a music box and a book in one. Well, surely someone in this realm knew her whereabouts? He stalked toward the main halls, and spotted his steward.

 

“Where is Zaile?”

 

“The half-elf, King Thranduil?”

 

“Do we have a plethora of Zaile's here? A cornucopia of strangely dressed guests named Zaile that you must carefully identify the one I speak of?”

 

His steward kept his face bland, swallowed and replied, “The kitchens, my king.”

 

“The kitchens. Pray tell, what is my guest doing in the _**kitchens**_?”

 

“Cleaning oysters, my king. It appears she brought some with her in that pack of hers.”

 

“A royal _**guest**_ in the kitchens cleaning oysters? Might you like to give her a mop and a bucket and have her clean the halls as well? Or perhaps you might send her to muck out the stables? Oh, I can imagine the tales she'll tell of her time her with us, such joys we have presented her!”

 

The steward straightened but before he could reply Thraduil waved him away and continued to the kitchens in a high state of fury.

 

He heard her laughter, and that of his kitchen workers long before he arrived there.

 

“Look at the size of that thing. I doubt even the king has seen one so large.”

 

“This one has two, and they are blue!”

 

“These are the freshest, best tasting oysters I have ever eaten.”

 

“Just how many more are in that pack, my lady. You spoke truly when you said it was magical and held far more than it appeared.”

 

“The king will eat well tonight and likely be well-pleased with his table.”

 

“And we will enjoy the excess!”

 

Laughter and good cheer, Zaile's throaty laugh mixed in with theirs. Spade took off running ahead of him, traitor, and he stalked into the kitchen to the sight of his entire kitchen crew gathered around the large central wooden table surrounded by mounds of oysters shells the size of serving platters. Some were shucking oysters, others were removing the meat, still others were preparing the oysters in a variety of ways. And everyone was eating oysters and enjoying a flagon of wine with them. His kitchen had apparently turned into a massive party as opposed to the normally disciplined affair he expected.

 

The room silenced and he saw Zaile look to him and smile. In her hands, was a bowl piled high with huge multicolored pearls that she held out to him.

 

“Here, come pick your favorite! I was paid with giant oysters by the merfolk for cleaning their polluted waters and brokering a peaceful resolution with the goblins. I took it on faith they had given me more than just a huge bag of tasty seafood, but I never imagined they'd give me this much or this nice of their pearl crop.” She set down a bowl and held him out a platter with grilled oysters, “And they are delicious, come and eat. There's raw ones too if you prefer.” She then smiled and he could see exactly how she'd manged to get them to let her clean up in the morning.

 

He was torn between his foul temper and his hunger, the scent of those delicious looking oysters and his curiosity and desire for those beautiful pearls. Each looked to be worth a fortune and she was simply handing him the bowl like she was offering him a biscuit. He made his way towards her, and accepted the platter of oysters. The entire kitchen held their breath waiting for his reaction. He had been known to fling a platter or two in his day, though he had never injured anyone as of yet. Well, everyone except for her--she went back to digging in her pack and pulling out oysters. She pulled out fourteen more and then said, “That's all. But I certainly think that enough,” and laughed. She looked around, and seemed to notice the tension.

 

“I hope the oysters please you, King Thranduil. Would you like some wine too? They are really good together. I have another bottle of my grandmother's wine if you would like to join us.”

 

It was the wine that saved her, and the kitchen as a whole, from his temper. He felt quite certain that if he released the black mood he was in on her, or on the kitchen, he would get none. He took a bite of the an oyster and had to admit it was exceptionally fine, delicious, and then he heard the sound of the cork coming out of the wine bottle and scented that delicious wine and he was quite glad he had reined himself in. She poured him a goblet, and one for herself and returned to shucking oysters. He watched as she and his kitchen finished, tipping the last few pearls into the bowl. Scullery maids hurried to remove the shells and clean up the kitchen to his exacting standards—he would tolerate no filth, no mess at any time.

 

He watched as she took the bowl of pearls to the sink and waited for an ellon to pump water over them. She rinsed the pearls, rinsed them again, and them poured them into a linen covered colander. While she was rinsing, the scullery maids thoroughly cleaned the table and laid down layers of soft white linen. Zaile wiped her face with a cool clean linen cloth and removed her apron. He could see why his guards would not know how to react to a noble dressed in such manner—she looked very much like a peasant. An exquisitely beautiful peasant, but certainly not a noble of any sort. The clothes were modest, the leggings quite baggy and the hoodie tunic also quite baggy and shapeless as well. But then there was the emerald necklace and she had worn the hair clip he had given her, clear signs of status and wealth. Perhaps these clothes were far finer than they appeared, or had some magical quality such as that battered pack of hers. Well, it was to his advantage that she dress thus—he still found her desirable but it was certainly more manageable with her dressed in those clothes.

 

She and returned to the table to spread out over a hundred beautiful pearls ranging in size from the tip of his pinkie to near the size of a chicken egg and a variety of colors but all beautifully iridescent, as if the rainbow glittered in each of them. Most were round, but some were fantastically shaped calling to mind clouds or a mountain or the shape of a voluptuous woman.

 

Beautiful, he was awestruck at them, and said, “The oysters are quite good. And apparently my kitchen has suffered no lasting harm due to your distraction.” He looked to his head chef, “Dinner, I trust, will still be on time?”

 

“Yes, my king, I swear.”

 

She cocked her head at him, seemed to consider his words and said, “Which one would you like?” She turned one of the more strangely shaped ones, with a pale golden brown color, “This one reminds me of your elk and his rack of beautiful horns. I think it would make a lovely pin.” She picked up the largest one, a beautiful pure white pearl with silver undertones, “This is probably the most valuable and would make a necklace fit for a king. It would go quite well with your other jewelry that I've seen and would seem to be to you taste” She handed them both to him, “Here, unless you prefer one or two of the others?”

 

He was speechless. Never had he had someone given him such a priceless gift in what seemed to be simple friendship. He thought of Bilbo Baggins, and his gift to him of the pearl necklace, his casual willingness to share his good fortune and not to hoard it. By all rights, Bilbo had deserved enough wealth to rival himself, and yet he had given nearly all of it away content with the simple life of a hobbit of the Shire. He rather thought she might be Bilbo's philosophical match, despite her claim to be a magical mercenary.

 

He bowed to her and said, “Thank you. I will treasure them and have them recorded as heirlooms of my people.”

 

She blushed and said, “Well, I did use your kitchen. It seems fair to share.” She reached into her pack and pulled out a bag and began to carefully place the pearls in the bag, wrapping each one in a small piece of linen. When she was done, she placed the bag inside, lifted the pack, and said, “So much lighter. I still need to finish cleaning out my pack but I would imagine you'd like to show me the library.”

 

He was deeply curious about the contents of her pack, and the pack itself-- how did it hold so much? The library could wait. It had stood for nearly two thousand years, one more day would not matter.

 

“I am at your disposal, my lady. If you would prefer to unpack, I am willing to assist and will see that you have any and all help you may need. We may go to the library after dinner, or tomorrow if you wish. Dinner will be served in two hours. If you wish to refresh and change before dinner, your attendant will meet you in your chambers an hour prior to the time. What would you care to do?”

 

“How long will I be staying here, in that chamber?”

 

“As long as you like, but at least two weeks. Then, if you wish, you may return to Mirael's for the span of two weeks.”

 

“I think I'd like to unpack. Some of my things may be muddy and I would like to finish this outside. A large open field would be ideal as then I could just order the bag to empty itself and then separate out any junk I may have accumulated or trash. I've been on the road for two months, so I suspect there is quite a lot in there that I have forgotten and a fair bit of things I won't want.”

 

A large open field? Just how much did that thing hold? It must be magical, how fascinating. He stood, held out his arm for her and led her to the entrance. There was a large porch at the entrance to the halls and any mud was easily swept into the river below. If she needed a larger area, he could take her over the bridge, though the land was covered with snow. They stepped through the doors, they magically opened at his command, and onto the porch. She shivered at the cold wind, her hoodie clearly not sufficiently warm for this endeavor. He removed his robe and draped it around her, then gestured for the closest guard to give him his cloak.

 

“This will work. I forgot how cold it was outside,” she said with a smile. She opened the pack, walked to the far side of the porch, and gestured then stepped way back. He followed, though he was curious and wanted to get a better look at it. The pack opened and then began to methodically disgorge it's contents, moving from side to side.

 

“It's old, and not the best available, but I've had it since I was a teenager and just don't want to get a different one. I'm hoping it will clean itself properly at the end and not spew dirt everywhere. We should probably just go back inside until it is done, my king.”

 

“I will take the risk. I have never seen such a thing.”

 

The pack finished disgorging it's contents, then shuffled over to the edge of the porch and belched a great plume of dirt, dust, bits of rock, and assorted leaves and plant matter over the side and down to the river below. Zaile walked over to it, gestured and it suddenly began to look newer and cleaner until it looked as if it had never been used.

 

“A standard renewal spell. It only works on simple inanimate objects, but it's pretty handy. I can use it to clean my clothes, or myself, when I'm in the field. I don't think it is as good as soap and water, but it's certainly better than nothing. My mother claims that this is all in my head, but my fey father agrees—we both strongly prefer a water bath.”

 

He wasn't quite sure what to say to this, but he had a few tapestries and other heirlooms he would like her to use it on. “It looks quite lovely. Would you consider restoring a few of the textiles in my halls?”

 

“Gladly, it is a very easy spell and requires virtually no power on most things. The more complex the repair, or extensive, the more challenge. It is different with magical objects, are they magical?”

 

“No, simply beautiful.”

 

She smiled and set to work. There were clothes, and series of small colorful scraps of lace she seemed embarrassed for him to see. Their function seemed difficult to discern, but her reaction made him keen to get a look at them. Gone. Rather a lot of empty containers of foodstuffs. Some bags which looked to hold gems which she set aside. A large thing she called a generator. Some guns—she said those were like very fast shooting bows, though only the rifle had close to the same distance ability. He was _**very**_ interested in those indeed. A sword obviously of ancient Noldor make, some knives of the same make. A bow and arrow set of the Noldor design but of more recent make. A vest of some sort that seemed like cloth covered armor. Rope, a grappling hook, so many things and some that he could not identify at all. It was enough to fill a small 6' x 6' room top to bottom and she fit it somehow into this pack the length of her torso.

 

Picking up the bags of what looked like rocks, she smiled and said, “I'll show you these over over dinner. They aren't polished yet, but I think you will like they.” She placed them in the pack and then took his outstretched hand.

 

“That was most fascinating, Lady Zaile, but I admit to some curiosity about many of the items. I should like to see them again and have you demonstrate their use for me.”

 

“I'd be glad to, perhaps tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, that would be well.” He smirked, they were nearly at her door. Whatever those lace scrapes were, he suspected they were quite private. And while he could not quite understand why, he suspected they were involved in something she perceived as sexual in nature. He should not tease her, but the idea of those bits of garish fabric having some taboo attached to them was too amusing to resist, “And those brightly colored lace pieces? Might you be willing to show me those?”

 

She turned, blushing furiously, and said, “Only if you are very very good and very very lucky.” Then she shot into her room and shut the door to his surprised laughter.

 


	7. Arguments and Nightmares

Dinner was delicious, the kitchens creating a variety of dishes with fresh oysters as the theme. As it drew to a close, she considered the impulse she had to show him her starshine gems. She'd already given him two pearls, one of which was incredibly valuable. And if she took out the starshine gems, she knew she'd give him one of those as well. What was this impulse she had to give him things and try to impress him? She was generous typically, but not _**that**_ generous.

 

She had to admit she had a massive crush on him. Looking at him over dinner, it was understandable why just based on his looks and studied elegance. But it wasn't just that. He was intelligent, _**very**_ intelligent. Sure, his knowledge of science, tech, medicine, and most modern things were not at all the equal to hers but his actual experience was far broader. He reminded her of her cousin the king. Maglor was modern, had changed with the ideas and options of the times, but his comprehension of people, their motives, their capacity for good and evil, was defined by his many many years.

 

Thranduil's curiosity and delight at the new, the different, and the useful reminded her of Maglor as well. He'd asked her to bring her computer to dinner and she had explained to him what it was, what it did, and what it could do. Question led to question and his intellect became clear from the speed with which he acquired knowledge and the the type of questions he asked, the way he linked information together. Once he realized in her realm that this device linked together most of the existing knowledge of her world and that this was a portable searchable repository for anything you wanted to know, see, or listen to at all times of the day virtually anywhere, he sat back and seemed to consider the impact of such easy access to knowledge. And then his mind had quickly turned to war.

 

“Anything I want to know, at any time?”

 

“Anything that is already known and has been published. New research can take a year or so to get on the net.”

 

“All the battle tactics of every battle throughout the history of your realm complete with diagrams, weapons, heraldry...”

 

“Not just my realm, but multiple realms and planes. Yes, and for modern battles there is often video to go along so you can actually see the battle and how it plays out. Now generals use realtime video feed to watch the ongoing battles in multiple locations and make corrections.”

 

“What is this video feed?”

 

War, and battles weren't an interest of hers, aside from what she needed to know to survive or for some goal she had so her options of videos to show him were limited to one--video clips of the last Hie she had downloaded to analyze in preparation for the next one. The screen quality was good, but with an elf's sharp eyes he was not deceived into thinking it was more than a rendering of real life. She did her best to explain how it functioned and that it was simply a very complicated machine and not at all magic, and he was only limited in his comprehension by her relative ignorance of things such as microcircuitry and computer science. He seemed simultaneously incredibly impressed with all she knew and irritated at the gaps that made full comprehension impossible. Still, he was frankly analyzed at the ability of humans to create such a thing and could see easily the usefulness of such tech. He was also deeply interested and occasionally horrified at the breadth of beings that made up the Lore.

 

As part of her explanation, she'd shown him that she could analyze her opponent's combat style frame by frame, and search to see if this was a consistent pattern in order to plan countermeasures.

 

“So, what I'm looking for are basically their signature moves so I can prepare options to counter them. Sure, everyone tries to mix up their fighting style, but there's usually patterns that can make it easier to fight them, or at least to defend yourself.”

 

His eyebrows raised and he looked deeply troubled and disapproving, “You plan to compete in this brutal contest,” he looked her small frame up and down. “You?”

 

“Yes. Me.”

 

“I do not approve this.”

 

“Well, it isn't for another 235 years, so I'll have quite a bit more control over my powers by then. I'll be fine.”

 

“Fine? Against such beasts as these?”

 

“It's no killing until the final round.”

 

He sat back, looked at her appraisingly, then said, “You think you could defeat a trained warrior such as these in battle?”

 

This was heading into territory she would prefer to not recount, but his incredulity of her as a warrior was deeply insulting. “Yes, easily, most of them. Kaderin, Lucindeya, Bowen, sure, I'd likely run if I faced them unless I had far better control of my powers than I do now. But most of them, yes.” Assuming she gained enough skill to be able to use her power without killing—that was the main challenge for her in combat. And as long as it was not during the short period of time she had virtually no power. The nice thing about the Hie is it encompassed multiple planes so she could collect the various prizes based on the phase of the moon in the plane at the time. It would be tricky, which is why she needed time to prepare. If she beefed up her skills as a fey, then the phase of the moon would make far less difference to her.

 

He arched a brow, “Easily?” He then looked at her and cocked his head, “You will practice with me, then.”

 

That was a genuinely terrible idea. Currently she practiced with simulacra for her warrior magic. That's because she so far could only kill. She was learning to use holds and freezes, but currently those had a discouraging tendency to morph into squeezing the life out of the person in a flash. Her magic seemed to be split between death and life, and that gap in between was proving challenging to reach. No way she was practicing with him. He be forced to kill her in order to avoid his own death, or he might die—she never practiced on anything living, her warrior powers were simply too driven toward killing as quickly and efficiently as possible.

 

“I can't.”

 

“Can't or won't?”

 

“I might kill you.”

 

He looked at her cold eyed, then seemed to look into her, “Might you? Explain.”

 

“If I use magic, warrior magic, I, it's either death or nothing. I can't use it to disable or halt an enemy, not yet. Like with the spiders. I could kill them or do nothing. I can limit it to a specific spot or region, but in that spot or region everyone, everything dies.” She thought of the contest, and that vast tornado like storm simply wiping the earth clean of life, a flat plain of rubble. There was no way she was unleashing that here. And if she fought him, yes, she could limit it to him, but she couldn't _**not**_ kill him, or not try to kill him. Thinking though the moves she knew, all were lethal, at least for her. “I could fight you as a fey and not as a witch, but I'm a middling fey warrior. I would be no challenge for you as a fey, especially in any hand to hand combat.”

 

“It is a question of control then, of maturing into your strength?”

 

“Yes, and of practice. Lots and lots of practice. It takes hundreds of years for a witch to fine tune their powers.”

 

“I did say you would practice with me, not _**on**_ me.” He sounded amused, “And I would be curious to see such practice, as well as be curious to assess your skills as a warrior without magic. In that, I can assist with your training and recommend others in my kingdom for you to practice with.” he paused and considered, “There are focus and awareness techniques that may help you develop control as well.”

 

“I would appreciate that, Thranduil.”

 

He nodded, took a drink from his goblet, “One of my hunters was bitten by a spider of the sort you fought on your arrival. He will recover, but these creatures had never been encountered in the lands he was hunting—near to a large settlement of Silvan elves. They are moving closer to our lands. I would ask you to repel them back as far as you can and to cleanse the land.”

 

“I can do that. I can also kill them for you, though I might need back up.”

 

“Killing them is the work of my rangers and they are quite good at it. The spiders roam to search for prey, but my rangers report that they no longer roam near Mirael's or within approximately two leagues of where you danced—they avoid those places completely.”

 

“I can dance next to the settlements, but I would want privacy for it. I realize it didn't really affect you, but some beings, especially unmated beings, have a marked response to seeing a witch, or witches, dance.”

 

“Of course. I will accompany you as will my rangers. They will cordon off and area and then you may do your work.”

 

She'd feel a lot more comfortable if he didn't stay either. He'd seen her dance once and hadn't seemed to be affected, and would she truly be sad if he were filled with desire for her? No, not really. Unless he had a wife, and then yes.

 

“It might be best if you stayed with your rangers.”

 

He leaned back in his chair and watched her lazily, one leg over the other, his wine goblet held in his other hand. “Might it?”

 

She really didn't want to explain. Each night between now and the full moon she would have slightly more power. Tonight would be more than last night and based on the feel of this realm and the moon in the sky last night, she'd hit the peak of her power in twelve days and then begin to decline. It wasn't that seeing a witch dance would create attraction where there was none, and it wouldn't move a being that had found their mate, but if there were any attraction there at all it could heighten it a _**lot**_.

 

“Yes, it would.”

 

He angled his head and seemed amused. Smiled slightly and said, “Why so, Zaile?” He was clearly toying with her. He seemed to find it amusing when she was blunt so she'd go with that. She needed to know if he were married or committed to another.

 

“Your wife would likely disapprove.”

 

His eyes turned cold as winter sky, all amusement fled. She leaned back from the fury she saw on his face and wasn't sure of the source of it.

 

“My wife? I have no _**wife.**_ Whichever of the scullery maids chose to enlighten you was quite mistaken—I am no longer married. My _**wife**_ repudiated me before all Arda.”

 

Oh, wow, that must be the reason for his foul temper that Tauriel had hinted at. Yep, that would do it. “No one said anything, I simply...”

 

He sneered, “You simply wished to indulge yourself in gossip? How _**charming**_.”

 

Before he could really get his rant rolling, she thought he should know the reason. “I didn't want you to be affected by the magic and to feel attracted to me. I, I was trying...”

 

He looked her up and down with cold eyes, “I am _**quite**_ certain I can resist your allure, such as it is.”

 

Ouch. That was frankly mean. Why the fuck had he been flirting with her so much if he found her as repellent as his current expression seemed to indicate? She rather thought he was full of shit, based on the way he had looked at her in her gown tonight, and how he had even reached out to brush her hair over her shoulder, stroking her neck lightly as he did it—fey just didn't touch people they weren't attracted to unless they were family. More of that hot and cold BS, then. Anyways, she had given him a warning--if Spade mauled him for trying to molest her, well, that was all on him. And he definitely would be missing out on getting a gem worth ten times his ratty spider infested kingdom.

 

Looked like he was awaiting her reply, but she'd remain silent rather than feed this whatever it was—fuck him.

 

He glared at her, seemed to be considering saying more, and then rose from the table and said, “Come.”  
  


She stood, looked at his outstretched arm until it became clear he wasn't offering it so much as demanding she take it, then laid her fingertips on it with the absolute bare minimum of touch. He led her through multiple halls, over waterfalls, and then to two great doors that opened magically at his approach. Inside, as far back as she could see, were leather bound books and even racks of what looked like scrolls. Her hands literally itched, she could not _**wait**_ to begin to look. She was still angry with him, but this was pretty great.

 

Stepping away from him, she tried to figure out the organization of the place—it was too large and too orderly to be haphazard. Probably the usual subject then by author? Or subject and time period? She could hardly wait to begin to explore.

 

“This is Celebrimdal. He is one of the keepers of the library.”

 

She turned and saw an elf with long dark hair and clear gray eyes—he looked like her people. “Hello, I am Zaile.”

 

He bowed and said, “I am at your service, my lady. The king has informed me that you are to be granted unlimited access to the library and all its collections both day and night. I and my fellow keepers are at your service.”

 

“This is a beautiful library. Thank you,” she still chose to thank Celebrimdal as opposed to Thranduil, but she certainly was thankful. She very much wanted to stay here but she had agreed to protect the village and if anyone were to be hurt or killed because she was feeling angry, well, she'd feel quite guilty over that.

 

She turned to Thranduil, said, “If you are ready, I will go with you to the village.” She'd have to put on some warmer clothes, this gown was beautiful but would be far too cold.

 

He nodded, his face closed and neutral, and then offered her his arm again. This time she took it—it was frankly a pain to be focused on touching him as little as possible, and rather childish—but kept her distance as much as she could.

 

“I'll need to change clothes.”

 

“As will I.”

 

He escorted her to her quarters, bowed and said, “I will return within the hour. It is a fairly short ride.”

 

* * *

 

Thranduil was annoyed largely with himself at this point. She'd had no idea of his marital status and had merely been warning him of the potential effects of her magic, an honorable action. Churlish and ill-tempered, he had revealed that his former wife had denied him. _**He**_ had revealed it, not one of his servants. It was no secret, certainly all of Arda knew by now, but he had made it utterly obvious how much it still rankled and infuriated him. He had displayed weakness.

 

It was difficult not to hate his former wife for her humiliation of him. Darkness followed hate as the moon the sun, he knew this. It was still difficult.

 

He bathed and dressed warmly but with an eye to his appearance. He would watch her dance, had planned to from the start, and had hoped in the secret places of his heart she might renew him that much more. At dinner he had not been able to resist touching her. The gown was a dark emerald green velvet with a wide open bodice that hinted barely at the swell of her breasts and revealed half her pale shoulders to his gaze. Her hair had fallen forward over one shoulder and pooled on the table next to her plate. He'd brushed it back under the pretext of ensuring she did not eat it along with everything else on the table—she had laughed merrily at that—but he had mostly just wanted to touch her skin.

 

Warm, soft, he'd wanted to touch her _**more**_ , see her shiver _**again**_. Restrained himself with difficulty. She had been right—it was a poor idea for him to watch her dance, wife or no wife, but he doubted he'd be able to resist it. The attraction continued to grow the more he learned from her and realized how wide and deep her knowledge, astonishing in one so young. It was her device, he realized, and likely some difference in the way they educated their young as well as personal inclination. She was apparently some sort of scholar among her people and he was again reminded of Elrond.

 

If Elrond were also female and exquisitely beautiful. At no point in the evening had he been bored. Offended, yes, but never bored. He rarely knew what she would say next and that was _**rare**_ indeed. He suspected that part of the weariness of life that elves felt was how predictable everything became after millenia. The years began to blend together and consequence, cause and effect, became so obvious. Part of his annoyance with men and dwarves is that they so often chose courses destined for ruin, obviously so to him and all those of his age, but just as predictably refused to listen to advice on how to avoid said ruin. He grieved as any creature over the pointless loss of life and needless pain, and felt a grim acceptance of it. There was little benefit in his involving himself in their affairs beyond some basic trade, and much pain for both himself and his people should he choose to engage. Let Tauriel have a few thousand years of warning mortals, and being ignored, and they might well begin to lose their shine for her as well.

 

The fall of Erebor was so predictable, so certain, and yet for all his warnings he had gained only Thrain's greedy insult to him. It had fallen, taken Dale with it to ruin and death, and he had been powerless to prevent it. It had grieved him, and also infuriated him because it was so unnecessary. Had Thrain been more discreet, or shared more of his wealth with his kin, or used the wealth as opposed to simply hoarding and displaying it in one location, he would not have attracted such a great serpent. It was inevitable.

 

But Zaile was not predictable, not with any certainty, and that alone was deeply attractive. After so very long, something genuinely new held a great appeal. It was not a mere physical attraction, though that was certainly there. But her age, yes, for all her knowledge she was very young. He saw it in her discussions of war and battle plans. They were largely theoretical and showed a lack of understanding about the mechanics of combat. Her plans for the Hie were chillingly naive. He would assist her in learning to control her powers, train her as an elf as well, and thus gain an idea of the scope of her use in war should such be necessary.

 

Preferably, it would not. He knew she had been in at least one truly awful battle, and bore the mental scars of it—he knew the signs well. But regardless of his attraction and interest, even affection for her, he would use her powers in war if necessary. These times required a coldness he did not relish. He slung on his thick cloak and headed to her quarters, curious as to what outlandish articles of clothing she might choose to wear. The guard awaited them at the stables.

 

He approached her rooms and indicated to the guard to notify her of his arrival. He was surprised to see her emerge wearing elvish riding clothes, a beautiful high neck deep charcoal gray velvet riding tunic with silver stitching at the neck, cuffs, and along the hem and up the side of the front. Dark gray leather leggings tucked in fine boots of black leather trimmed in silver. Over it all a fur lined dark green velvet hooded cape. Her hair hung loose except for the sides which were braided back and secured with the clip he gave her. She was so beautiful, despite the fact she did not smile at him and looked down and to the side at his arrival.

 

“Lady Zaile,” he smiled at her when she looked up, but saw her eyes were still troubled, “accompany me to the stables, if you would.”

 

She nodded and fell into step next to him, her head barely reaching his shoulder. She was so small, so young, he felt a pang of guilt for his sneering at her earlier. It was likely she believed him.

 

“Zaile,” he paused in the empty corridor, “I regret my earlier words. I thank you for your well meant warning.” Though he very much doubted he'd heed it.

 

“I didn't know about what happened to you,” she looked up at him and added, “I think she is an idiot.”

 

“Indeed? Despite my foul mood earlier?”

 

“Yes. I imagine it must be a difficult thing to deal with, and I sort of asked you about it out of nowhere by mentioning your wife. I would have been upset too.”

 

“And would you have insulted your lovely companion as a result?”

 

“No, probably not. I'm not excusing you, but I do understand.”

 

“I am glad.” He was, and he would try to rein in his foul temper, at least with her.

 

They reached the stables and he led her to her horse. She mounted it easily and sat comfortably in the seat. The rest of them mounted up and he brought his elk close to her and said, “I would have you ride next to me, if you will.”

 

“With pleasure, King Thranduil.”

 

He reached out and lifted her hood up over her hair and she looked quizzically at him, “It is snowing somewhat outside the stable.

 

They made their way through the darkness towards the settlement, the moon hidden behind the solid cloud cover. It was a dark night, preferred above all other times by the spiders, and his senses were aware of every movement, every sound. His hunter had been bitten by one spider, killed one spider and seen no other. His rangers had found no more as well. But long experience had taught them all that the foul things were pack hunters. One was dead, but where were the rest of the pack? Fled? Perhaps.

 

Perhaps not. Dol Guldur was sleepless, ever seeking for some new horror. The corpse of the spider they found was slightly different than the typical spider and oddly dusty with dirt. This sort of new he did not relish. As he considered this potential new threat, they arrived at the sleeping settlement and paused. Last time she had selected the place herself, perhaps she felt some spot here call her?

 

“Where would you prefer to dance? Is there a spot that calls to you?”

 

“Yes. The land here is largely clean but there is a section of intense darkness over there.”

 

She pointed to the far side of the town and began to ride towards it. They rode through the town to the far edge and out and into the deep woods on the other side. After a while, he could begin to feel it. She was right. This part of the forest was too quiet, felt unclean, some darkness festering here. That had been absent even a week ago. They rode around the worst part and to a clearing with a small spring fed pool feeding a thin stream, now largely iced over, leading away from the clearing. This area felt less dark, more pure that the other areas, thought to the rear of it and farther back he dimly sensed another center of darkness. She dismounted, handed him the reins to her horse and removed her cloak as her cat leapt free from it. Spade seemed to sniff the air, hissed, and arched her back.

 

“Yes, I sense it too.” She looked to him, “I think there are several things here that are hidden. Once I start to dance, they'll feel it and will either flee or fight. If I'm far in the dance, I won't be in a position to defend myself. Spade will protect me, but I'll probably need your help too. I'd like you to form a perimeter around me, facing outwards.”

 

“Consider it done. I selected guards based on skill, attraction to females, and marital status. All female, all married to males—should they see you dance it should not create difficulty, correct?”

 

She smiled, “That's perfect. No, there should be no problem at all.”

 

“I will stay here,” he refused to leave her here unguarded on one side. If the cat faced an opponent on one side, another could attack from the flank. No, she was too valuable to risk in any way.

 

She nodded, sat, removed her boots and socks, and began to chant. He moved to his guards and ordered them into position and took a stance facing her while Spade slipped behind her and seemed to expand and lengthen until she was the enormous cat from the night before. She looked at him and gave him a long blink from the same, albeit far larger, blue eyes. He felt it was some sort of acknowledgment, one warrior to another, and nodded.

 

She stood, seeming to no longer see her surroundings, or to see more than her surroundings, he wasn't sure. Beneath her, the grass sprouted and small white flowers bloomed around her feet. Some light and goodness radiated out from her and the sheer life of it hit him like a mace to his shield. With that, she began to dance, each step ushering in a tiny spot of spring. He was mesmerized by her, but turned to defend her with difficulty. Spade let out a coughing roar of challenge—the cat sensed the approach of enemies.

 

He heard his archers firing arrows and knew this was more than a few spiders. No matter, they were all skilled warriors—he trusted them. Any that broke through he was certain he could match. To his right, the underbrush began to rustle and he saw an enormous spider emerge from under a pile of leaves.

 

“They have dug tunnels, they are underground!”

 

The spider leapt for him and he split it in two easily, another emerged and that one also was easily slain. A second emerged from another tunnel and things became slightly interesting. Spade had his back and was clearly killing them brutally as periodically a bit of leg or some other chunk would fly overhead or pelt him from behind. They seemed driven mad by Zaile's magic. After a period of intense battle, the rest retreated keening--apparently they found the area close to her unbearable as the light and life began to spread farther and farther outward. Excellent.

 

He heard one of his rangers, Ardenath, call, “They flee, my lord. Would you have us follow?”

 

“Yes. Kill them all but do not overly risk yourselves.”

 

“Yes, my lord.” Her voice eager, she called to the other rangers and they took off. That should be the end of the ground spiders, at least for the moment.

 

He turned towards Zaile and watched as she spun and danced, the ground seemed to thrum with life and he felt as if the years fell from him as well as the land. Around the clearing she moved, luminescent white star shaped flowers blooming at each step of her feet, pale spring grass sprouting. Even the air was warmer, too warm for his cloak and he removed it and sat to watch her. He wished to catch her and hold her to him, but was unsure of Spade's reaction. Desire roared in him, but he would be its master.

 

The great cat watched him closely, then paced towards him flicking her tail from side to side. When she reached him, she sprawled out next to him lazily and butted his hand with her huge head. A deep rumbling purr began as he petted her, filled with wonder and amusement at this strange turn his long life had taken. Zaile danced, her long hair swinging out around her as her pale green eyes seemed to almost glow with an inner light. She seemed to see nothing, to be lost to whatever spell she was weaving that he could feel was healing and cleansing his land. Work, it was clearly becoming work for her. Steps not quite as light, though still beautiful, and she was panting with effort. Perhaps she would stop soon, though he thought he could watch her forever and be satisfied.

 

Finally, she stopped and leaned against a tree about thirty feet from him. The light from the flowers began to dim and then faded to darkness. Moonlight shone into the clearing and illuminated it brightly—the clouds had dissipated and the night was now clear, the stars as jewels one could pluck from the sky. He stood and moved towards her as she moved towards him, obviously tired and weak—he could see the wobble in her step. No matter. He would have her ride with him and she could sleep on the way back.

 

“Is everyone ok? I felt evil boil up out of the ground but it's gone now. I guess you killed whatever it was?”

 

Exhausted, she sounded completely exhausted. He felt a pang of conscience at asking this of her, but she knew the limits of her own power and had stopped at the place she considered reasonable. Who was he to doubt her judgment concerning her own limits?

 

“Yes, all are well. Spiders such as the ones you faced at Mirael's, but tunneling, attacked us. They are dead.”

 

“That's good. The land in the settlement and about a league and a half out is clean.” She paused, sighed, “It was so dark, whatever made those things. They are not natural, not at all. Most beings are a mix of good and evil to varying degrees, but whatever created those things was a purity of darkness like I've never felt. Some hunger to end everything, to ruin and defile everything.” She shuddered, “I thought pure evil, pure destruction, was a myth. What would be the point of such a thing?”

 

Such did not exist in her experience? She was lucky indeed. “It has no point but devastation. Ever it waits for opportunity to befoul and spoil that which is pure and living. It has been so since the beginning of this world.”

 

She looked at him with such compassion and such weariness, then she seemed to see something on his face. Ah, there was no doubt ichor on his face from his kills—how repellent. Gently, she used the edge of her cloak to wipe his face. He thought to tell her to save herself the trouble—he would bathe once he returned and long years of battle had inured him to the filth of war. But her touch was such a pleasure, and she was so close, he simply stood still and allowed her to minister to him. Over his forehead, his cheeks, the line of his jaw, down his neck to the hollow of his throat, she carefully wiped him clean. Such keen pleasure he had not felt in such a long time that his eyes fell closed and when he felt her begin to move away from him, he caught her to him without thought, bent his head and kissed her.

 

She tasted so good, _**so good**_ , was his first thought. Plush lips, her hands in his hair as she met him and kissed him back matching his passion with her own. He lost himself in the feel of her, such as he could feel with his gloved hands and light armor. It was not as bad as the full plate armor, but it was hardly suitable for courting. He should let her go, but he would not lose this moment, not waste it, perhaps he would never have the chance again to kiss her. He should not have done it at all but she was so alive, so kind, and he wanted her. He had never been a male to deny himself what he wanted and so had little practice with it.

 

She wanted him too. Pressed herself to him like a flower aching towards the sun, moaned into his mouth at his touch. So young, too young, he should part from her. And he would. After just one more kiss that became kisses along her jaw down to her neck, and back to her mouth. He thought he'd developed the strength to part from her and then she traced the edge of each his ears with her fingers, up and down in a maddeningly soft and slow stroke, and slid her tongue into his mouth. Caught fire, as if he'd been stacked with logs and she the bright flame to burn him, his desire roaring with no thought of any consequences at all.

 

And then she seemed to fall into him, her knees buckling. He caught her, supported her as she yawned and said, “I need to sleep. I..” then her eyes closed and she went limp.

 

Of course. It was as it had been at Mirael's—she had pushed herself to exhaustion. He felt a flash of irritation mixed with admiration at her stubborn determination to push back the darkness from his people and their settlement. Once she awoke, they would talk about quitting before she utterly exhausted herself. He appreciated her efforts, but the enemy was relentless. In a singular battle one could fight with everything, but for a war one must pace oneself, exercise restraint. This was war, and tomorrow the darkness would push back and begin to inch forward. It was a balance of pushing the Enemy back faster than he pushed forward, a balance they had so far kept poorly as he advanced inch by slow inch. If they could take those inches back, year by year, or simply hold what they had, he would count that victory. For that, she must pace herself. And somehow he must convince her to stay.

 

He picked her up and saw that Spade was back to her cat form. She followed along as he walked back towards the mounts. Between the trees, he saw his rangers lope towards him gracefully, all present, all apparently unharmed. Good.

 

“My lord, was the Lady Zaile injured?”

 

“No, she is merely exhausted.” He handed Zaile to the closest ranger then swung up onto the elk and took her back as the ranger handed her up carefully. Wrapping one arm around her waist, he settled her back against him with her head slumped against his chest then began the ride back at a moderate pace so as not to drop her. They rode through the settlement, then on into the forest and he felt the difference in the land, lighter, healthier, younger. Even the air felt clearer, less thick to breath. He owed it to her, was thankful for her help and service to them.

 

She shivered against him, and he looked down. Likely she was cold. There were nearly back to the stables; soon she would be warm and safe in his halls. As the stables came into view, he heard her whimper and looked down—she was holding on to the edges of his cloak, her face hidden by her hood. A nightmare? He remember the last time she danced. Was this a consequence of exhausting herself? They rode into the stables and he pulled back her hood to look into her face. Tears ran down her face in great trails. He shook her gently, but it was as it had been before—she would not wake. This time he would have the healers look at her and ease her sleep if possible.

 

He wrapped her in her cloak and helped the stable worker take her then dismounted and took her back.

 

“My lord, is the Lady Zaile in pain?” Ardenath sounded worried, and the rest of the rangers were also clearly troubled at Zaile's evident sorrow.

 

“She is exhausted and her sleep is troubled. It is not a physical injury. Still, I will see the healers attend to her.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Ardenath paused then said, “The land feels better, safer. This is her?”

 

“Yes.”

 

Ardenath nodded, “My brother and his wife and children live in that settlement. I would be happy to assist the Lady Zaile in any way I can.”

 

His rangers left and he carried her through the corridors towards the royal quarters—the healers would meet him at her chambers along with her attendant. She had stopped crying but still shivered periodically, mumbling, “I'm sorry,” at one point. These were not happy dreams, that was clear. As he rounded the corner, he saw the door to her quarters open, the guard off to the side and knew the healers had already arrived. Carrying her in, he nodded in acknowledgment to the guard and saw the head healer, Celebredom waiting with the attendant.

 

“Greetings Celebredom.”

 

“My king,” he bowed, “how may I assist you?”

 

He laid Zaile on her bed and sat next to her as she clutched his cloak and murmured, “No, please,” when he attempted to leave. Very well, he would stay at least until she was eased. He petted her hair and motioned for the guard to move a chair close to the bed. It would be improper for him to join her in the bed, but less so for him to comfort her by sitting next to her. If she required his presence for comfort, he would not deny her. He would assure her reputation though by having a healer and a couple of guards with them until she would allow him to leave or she waked.

 

Removing himself temporarily so the guard could move a chair in, he heard her whimper in fear and saw the tears start again. She was normally such a doughty little being that it pained him to see her thus, more so than it would another. Weakness of all kinds disgusted him, but this did not seem like weakness so much as a wound earned in battle. He sat and took her hand in his, then stroked her hair with the other. She eased, and he faced the waiting healer.

 

“She dreams ill things and can not wake from them. It appears to happen when she uses her magic to exhaustion. Have you remedy for this? A way to wake her or to ease her sleep?”

 

The healer came and began to examine her. He lifted her eyelids, first one then the other, took her pulse, then used his fea to examine her and look for any foul influence. He stood back, then said, “There are herbs we can steep that will ease her rest,” he paused and then added, “perhaps these are memories that trouble her but I am not certain.”

 

Thranduil looked sharply at him, “Speak clearly. What else do you fear?”

 

“Some evil influence could be troubling her sleep. I do not sense it, but power such as hers will doubtless draw the attention of the Enemy eventually.”

 

Thranduil considered then grasped her hand and sent his own fea into her to look. He sensed no wicked influence, only the pulse of her strange power and so much life. “These seem to be memories to me, probably of battle. Treat her as a soldier haunted by war.”

 

“Yes, my lord, as you wish.”

 

He turned to the guard, “Have my attendant bring me clean robes here. I will stay with the Lady Zaile until she is eased. I will require a healer and two guards to stay as well for her ease.

 

“Yes, my lord.” The guard left to attend to his needs.

 

The scent of athelas, chamomile, elanor, and sweet lissuin filled the chamber and she seemed to settle and ease into a more normal sleep. And yet she clutched his hand still like it were her safety, so she remained troubled. He would leave her to bathe and change and see if she continued to sleep well. If not, he would remain with her for the night. On the morrow they would discuss what troubled her and he would set limits with her regarding the use of her power except in the most dire of circumstances. He would not see her risk herself or suffer needlessly—only a fool pushes his people so.

 

His attendant and two guards entered her quarters. One of the guards was Tauriel.

 

“Tauriel, come.”

 

He stood and had Tauriel take his place then followed the attendant into the bathing chamber. Quickly, he bathed himself and tried not to think about the fact she had been in this same pool naked. After, he allowed his attendant to dress him and swiftly braid his hair—he had no patience for the drying process tonight. The attendant bore away the soiled garments and he walked back to her bed chamber.

 

She was crying again, whimpering in her sleep and saying, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry,” over and over again in a plaintive heart breaking voice. Tauriel looked up at his arrival, “My lord, I can not seem to comfort her or to wake her.”

 

“The herbs seemed to work, but then the benefit of them diminished,” the healer shook his head, “I think she is too exhausted to wake from the dream and so is trapped in it.”

 

Thranduil switched places with Tauriel and took Zaile's hand. He leaned over and whispered in her ear, “Zaile, I am here with you. There is nothing to fear. Be at rest.”

 

“I killed them. I killed them all. I had to, to save Artemis. But they won't stop looking at me. I just, I couldn't control my power enough. I'm sorry, so sorry.” She reached up and pulled him closer to her, “Please forgive me, please, they would have done worse than kill us before they killed us. But they won't stop looking at me with their dead eyes.” It was a mumble, all this, and perhaps he misunderstood part of it but he rather caught the gist. She had killed those who would have killed her and some ally, this Artemis. Apparently she believed that she could have avoided their deaths if she'd had enough control—a foolish risk. In war, enemies were to be slain. A dead enemy could not rise up and kill you at a later date, and was frankly preferable to a living unless their were some strategic advantage to keeping them alive.

 

Maybe her first battle, she was young enough for that to be the case, and it was common for young warriors to struggle with this sort of guilt. He probably had himself, though it was so long ago, so many battles ago, he could not remember. He brushed her hair back and stood, “She feels extreme guilt over lives taken in war, lives she thinks she could have saved had she have been more skilled. Do you have sleeping draughts for those who suffer with such guilt?”

 

“Yes, my lord, I will fetch one.”

 

He bent back over and stroked her brow, then whispered to her, “You are alive because they are dead. There is no shame in that, no guilt. You did your best, and did well. Sleep, little warrior, sleep.” He sent his fea into her, soothing her and comforting her, lowering her heart rate, whatever he could do to comfort her. She wrapped her arms around him and he decided that propriety could be damned for this evening. She had likely saved many lives this night with rousting out the spiders before they could attack the settlement in numbers; he would offer her the comfort she so clearly craved and trust his guard to keep their tongues. The healers would do so, of this he felt sure, and Tauriel was entirely to be trusted in this as well. The other guard he knew less well, but his dislike of gossip in regards to himself was well known. The man would likely remain silent.

 

He wrapped her in the top cover and moved her to the side, then settled himself on the bed propped up against the backboard with pillows. Not ideal, but better than the chair. He reached over and pulled her on to his chest and wrapped his arms around her. Almost immediately, she calmed and stopped crying. Her head was over his heart and he had the sense that the sound of it, or the warmth of his body, soothed her.

 

He looked over at his guard who were studiously looking anywhere but at him, Tauriel's cheeks were somewhat pink.

 

“She is not the first warrior I have comforted after battle, nor will she be the last,” he said tartly. It was true. He had held his own son in much the same manner after his first battle. Though, his guards were right—it was different with her and they sensed it as much as he. Still, he would maintain the pretense for her sake.

 

“Yes, my lord,” both said softly but still refused to look anywhere near the bed. He had no idea the walls and ceiling of this chamber were of such interest.

 

“Bring in chairs, we will all be here for the night.”

 

Tauriel looked relieved. He was somewhat insulted that she had clearly thought he meant to share a guest's, a _**young**_ guest's at that, bed uninvited and unchaperoned. He was about to say something withering, but the healer returned with a small vial of some substance.

 

“If you would turn her head, my lord, and open her mouth.”

 

Thranduil did so as gently as he could, and watched as the healer lifted her tongue and placed a small amount of the substance under it.

 

She made a face—it must have a foul taste—and pulled away, back to his chest to sputter and cough. It must have a _**vile**_ taste indeed. But she seemed to ease into a deeper sleep and was soon quite peaceful. He could perhaps leave her here, but he rather enjoyed her in his arms and had a good excuse to have her there. Still, he would inquire as to what was best for her.

 

“She seems eased. Might we leave her?”

 

The healer considered, then said, “It seems your presence comforts her as much or more than the medicine, my lord. I shall stay as well and observe. If you are willing, I hope to learn if there is any other source to this besides bad memories. It is strange that the presence of the king is all that comforts her and causes me to question if my perception of no evil influence is wrong.” The healer sounded perplexed, though frankly Thraduil was pleased. He rather thought she was comforted by him because she had begun to be fond of him. She had kissed him back, after all. He sensed no foul influence but the healer's words gave him all the excuse he needed to do exactly as he pleased, blamelessly so, and he settled in to enjoy a night of holding a female he desired in his arms. It had been quite some time since he had such an experience, and while it was not ideal—he had an audience after all—he would enjoy it for what it was. Spade leapt up on the bed as well, curled against his leg and began purring and soon he had fallen asleep himself.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

  
  


 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	8. Darkness or Light

Zaile wandered through the blood and the rubble, the world from horizon to horizon nothing but a baking sun, thick thigh deep blood, and under the blood the rubble of what had been. It stunk, of course it did, the blood fly blown and viscous and it was all her fault. Eyes bobbed in the rotting blood and rotated to look at her, _**your fault, your fault, you, you, you.**_

 

She _**knew**_ it was a dream—it wasn't the first time—and braced herself. It didn't matter it was a dream, she couldn't wake up from it and it was all too real when she was trapped in it. It could get worse. It probably would. Pulled under the blood by a leviathan beast made up of her torn apart enemies who were still somehow recognizable, their patchwork of mouths cursing and accusing her. That one was a favorite. Or the blood filled with the torn parts of her enemies somehow animated and given keening purple mouths full of shiny needle teeth, swimming toward her around the chunks and clots.

 

And the guilt, knowing that if she'd been stronger, practiced more, worked harder and not been such a fucking slacker she could have saved the Companions. She knew it was her fault and so did they. So they tormented her and she took it—it was what she deserved.

 

The dream flickered, the scent of blood diminishing and some comfort coming to her. The blood began to recede and nothing came from it, no monsters, no voices, the dream seemed to get better and she sighed with relief. Then the presence was gone. The dream changed. She was in darkness with rotting blood nearly up to her mouth, on tippy toes to keep from tasting it. Around her things brushed against her in the cave-like darkness, moonless, starless, utter darkness whispering, _**What did you do? What are you? You know what you did, what you are. Murderer, killer, dark dark, you are darkness, your fault, your fault we are dead and rotting.**_

 

She apologized, tried to explain, but they were dead and it was her fault—there could be no forgiveness. She wept. The blood swallowed her and she choked on it, drowning over and over but never dying.

 

Then a voice, soothing, a brilliantly shining hand reached down and pulled her from the blood to set her whole and clean in a sunlit field. Arms wrapped her from behind and some great heart beat slowly beneath her ear, a thump of _**safe, safe, no one will hurt you, you are**_ _ **not**_ _ **guilty, nothing to forgive. Survivor, warrior, victor, strong, strong. No weakness, no shame, heal little one, safe.**_

 

She curled against the star—it was so bright with light it could be nothing else—and sighed with relief. The star opened her mouth and some dimmer star fed her something frankly awful, but not as bad as rotten blood. It spread though her and she fell into a dreamless sleep, utterly thankful for their help.

 

Zaile woke to rather a lot of snoring and thought that maybe she'd gotten drunk with the crew and they'd made it to the living room before all collapsing in a heap. It was hot as fuck in here too—she was wrapped tight in a thick ass blanket and had gone to bed fully dressed in winter clothes. And she hadn't come home alone. There was a hard muscular chest under her and arms around her. Whoever it was slept, their heart beating slowly and a slight purr to their breath indicating sleep. But somebody in this room was doing a lot more than purring—they were sawing logs. Probably Regin—she snored like a damned freight train.

 

She propped herself up to look at the male holding her and looked into two deep blue eyes. Thranduil. Oh. She remembered yesterday, the kiss, and blushed furiously. His eyes crinkled with amusement as he smiled, then stroked his hand through her hair.

 

“You were trapped in a nightmare and my presence seemed to sooth you. Tauriel, Badhor, and Mardiel the healer are here as well. How was your sleep?”

 

She rather thought she should get off him as quickly as possible, but he showed no interest in releasing her. One arm firmly around her waist, the other over her back as he lazily stroked her hair gazing at her with half-lidded eyes. Comfort, that was all it was, he sought to comfort her. He would not attempt a seduction in a room full of his guards.

 

“I, I slept well.” She moved to get off him and he reluctantly shifted her to the side of the bed against the wall so she was boxed in between the wall and him. At least she was off him. She unwrapped herself from the blanket but was still hot. Kicked off the boots and socks, then moved to slide off the end of the bed. He caught her hand, and she turned, “I'm boiling in this velvet tunic.”

 

He nodded, then stood to open a window slightly. Cold air filled the room and swept out the result of too many people in too small a room. Much better. She'd still prefer pajamas and an over robe such as he had, that and a quick bath. She stood and went to the bathing chamber, saw that particularly modest night clothes had been laid out—long pants and a top of a thicker linen than normal with an entirely opaque over robe that went from neck to ankles. They'd remembered to put out her own underwear as well.

 

She shut the door, bathed, then dried off and tied a linen towel around her hair. Dressed and then dried her hair as best she could and then left it loose to finish drying. Walking to the door, she exited to find the rest of the elves up and looking faintly embarrassed to see her dressed for bed. That was so dumb. She was literally covered from neck to wrist to the tip of her slipper clad toes. They insisted on looking anywhere but at her, their eyes darting to her only when she directly addressed them. Tauriel seemed somewhat more at ease and the king was not affected at all, simply lounged at his ease on her bed and appeared to be amused at their discomfort.

 

The healer asked, “Lady Zaile, if you would allow me to examine you?”

 

She looked at Thranduil lounging on her bed and decided that the elves might be uncomfortable with her sitting on her bed with him and so she sat in a chair across from the bed. Literally everyone but Thranduil seemed to breath a sigh of collective relief. He smirked and stood to join the healer in examining her. The healer looked in her eyes, took her pulse, asked her a series of questions and then said, “You seemed trapped in a dark dream. Is this a new affliction? What can you tell us of the source of these dreams?”

 

“Yes, but..” she didn't want to talk about that with virtual strangers.

 

“Tell us,” Thranduil's voice was a command and she bristled at it—he had no right to her past.

 

“Zaile,” she looked up at him and his eyes were surprisingly kind, “tell us. A burden shared is easier to carry. We have all seen war, even the healer has seen much of the horror of war in his work. We will understand more than you think.”

 

They would think her weak. She had kept her dreams to herself as the Lore was no place for weakness. Her family and the witches would not turn on her as the Pravus faction did, but it might make them hesitant to send her into battle when it was necessary. She would show no weakness.

 

“They are just bad dreams. Everyone has them. It's not a big deal.”

 

Thranduil clasped her chin in his hand and lifted it, his voice ice cold, “You lie. Speak the truth.”

 

“They are my dreams.”

 

“And this is my kingdom, and you are in my service, and I will not abide your lying to me.”

 

She scrunched in on herself and said, “I'd prefer to just deal with it myself.”

 

“Your preferences are not my concern. Speak.”

 

What the fuck? Was he fucking kidding? Zaile glared up at him suddenly angry at how intrusive he was being. Why was he so insistent about this? “Why are you _**interrogating**_ me about my _**dreams**_?”

 

Thranduil looked down at her coldly, then seemed to reconsider and some warmth flowed back into his eyes, “It is not my intention to interrogate you.” His eyes flicked to the guards and the healer, “Perhaps you would care to speak privately?”

 

That would be better than the full crew, and she would prefer to speak to him in the sitting room as opposed to her bed chamber as well. “Yes. In the sitting room.”

 

“The sitting room?”

 

“I'm not sure what you call it, the first room in my suite of rooms.”

 

“Of course,” he stepped away from her and turned to Tauriel, “Have the kitchens bring us tea, fruit, bread, butter, and cheese.”

 

Tauriel nodded and left along with the others. She looked up at him and stood, followed him into the other room and shut the door to her bedchamber. He sat on the bench and indicated she was to join him there but for this she would prefer distance so she sat in a chair opposite him. No one knew the content of her dreams--she had hoped they would just go away and fade with time. It was only a real problem when she worked to exhaustion. But her control was so poor sometimes she pushed herself father than she meant to, or a spell took more than she anticipated. The dreams were not rare, and they were getting worse not better.

 

He waited, simply watching her. It was clear he planned to wait her out and would not let this drop. A servant brought breakfast—a delicious looking offering that she had no appetite for whatsoever. She took a sip of tea and picked at one of the buns but ate little of it.

 

“Zaile,” his voice was soft, gentle, “tell me. Twice I have seen you trapped in torment. I would help you if I am able.”

 

“I dream of the people I killed in battle.”

 

He simply listened, his face open and non-judgmental.

 

“My friend Artemis was forced to prove herself in combat. She could have one companion and asked me. I accepted. If the hero is slain, the companion can leave the contest. The companion is supposed to give their life to protect the hero, but a lot don't, especially mercenaries. It's more a formality for a lot of families and the heroes do most of the fighting and killing. One hero is all that is allowed to survive, 1 out of 500.”

 

She paused and looked at him. He nodded for her to continue.

 

“So, my power is tied to the moon, at it's peak when the moon is full. This plane is reserved only for this battle. It's rocky and nothing lives there, but the contest was scheduled during the time of a congruence of the plane's three moons all being full. I had to kill the heroes, but I could have spared the companions. Except I couldn't. I, when I unleashed my power it was so much, more than I've ever felt before. I couldn't control it. I killed them all, literally ripped them into minuscule pieces and leveled the plane until there was nothing but rubble. There weren't even bodies to turn over to the families—they were just gone.”

 

She looked down at the floor—no doubt he would be horrified.

 

“I think the worst part for me is that nearly everyone was proud of me and thought this was great. My cousin the king was the only one to have some concerns, but even he seemed more focused on the strategic benefits of all that power as opposed to realizing that had my family, my friends, anyone else been there they would have died too. I wouldn't be able to use my power unless I was ready for everyone to die. I'm full of darkness, death.”

 

“Did Artemis die?” His voice was even, neutral. What an odd question.

 

“No.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“She was my friend.”

 

“You said your power didn't differentiate between enemies and friends. So why is she alive?”

 

“I, she was close to me.”

 

“Were none of your enemies close to you?”

 

“A couple got close, but..”

 

“They died, I assume. So why does Artemis live?”

 

“I, I'm not sure.” She hadn't really thought about Artemis surviving.

 

“Would the companions have killed you if they could?”

 

“Yes, and worse. They taunted us and some spoke of, of forcing us.”

 

“So, they were a threat then, all of them?”

 

“Yes, as long as their heroes were alive.”

 

“Do you think they would have left you alone after their heroes died?”

 

She thought back on many of the companion's expressions, some hateful, some leering, none pleasant. “I don't know.”

 

“So, they were a potential threat to your safety?”

 

“Yes,” In all honesty, yes. She wouldn't have trusted any of them not to use the contest as an opportunity to rape her or kidnap her for ransom, or both.

 

“It seems to me your power eliminated every threat. Did it stop as soon as all the threats were gone?”

 

“Yes,” Actually, it had. Huh.

 

“So, you feel guilty that you did not risk the safety of yourself and your friend to preserve the lives of those who meant you harm?”

 

“No, I mean, I can't control my power and..”

 

“Clearly you can. Artemis lives.”

 

“But I killed them, over a thousand people, gone completely,” she started crying. Warm arms embraced her, held her tightly while she wept, “I hate that I killed them. I'd do it again to save Artemis but I hate that I killed them and I hate that others celebrated me for it. I'm disgusted by it. I just did what I had to to save my friend.”

 

He held her, stroked her damp hair as she cried, then led her to the bench to sit next to him. She leaned on his shoulder and thought how odd it was that this was the person she chose to confide in. His honesty, she decided, his brutal clear eyed honesty. He would tell her what he thought regarding her actions, and he would do so regardless of how it cut. She wanted that. Wanted his judgment. Though he comforted her as well and that she had not anticipated. His arm was around her, and he stroked her cheek with his calloused fingers. It surprised her that they were so rough, and then she remembered that he was a warrior king and that meant practice.

 

Finally, he spoke. “Your first battle? First time to kill?”

 

“Yes, yes.”

 

He sighed and held her a little closer, “The first is the worst, for all warriors. Mine was so long ago but I still remember the incredible stench of it, the sounds, the finality of death for some who had lived so long I found their deaths unbelievable, impossible when I myself survived. There is no glory in war, battle, killing—it is simply a vile job done to prevent a worse option.”

 

He lifted her face to look into her eyes. Compassion, kindness, sorrow, and such weary age filled them it was breathtaking, “I have survived many many battles, killed so many they are countless, a sea of blood and death should I care to swim in it. I do not. To survive is no shame. There is no glory in war, but there is glory of a sort in surviving it, and preserving that which you love. I do not feel guilt for the lives I have taken preserving my own and those of my people. And neither should you. It is my thought that your power judged them a threat and eliminated them. There is no shame in that, and no guilt. You did not take lives for no reason or slay the innocent. Had they offered no threat, I believe you would have spared them as you spared your friend.”

 

She looked up at him as he brushed his hand over her hair like she was a child. She was no child and without thought leaned in to kiss him lightly on the mouth. He stilled, and she thought she had made a mistake and pulled back blushing but he followed her and pulled her to him kissing her in return. Better, all she wanted was to feel alive, understood and safe. She realized he was the star from her dream, the warm accepting presence and found it odd that this male that so many feared, almost certainly with good reason, should be the one to care for her. His care likely would not last. Wives rarely leave for no reason and his had apparently done so in some particularly humiliating way based on his angry words. _**Repudiated before all of Arda**_ , certainly sounded public and awful. There was some story there that should give her pause. But to her he had been kind and so she would enjoy this for now.

 

Such intensity of desire, she'd never felt it for any other. A mere kiss, closed mouth, and she felt illuminated from within by hunger for him. She slid her tongue into his mouth and tasted him, stroked his tongue with her own and he groaned and kissed her more roughly, one hand in her hair as he pulled her to him and kissed her. An interesting mixture of textures, soft skin over a lean muscular frame, honed by literally thousands of years of battle. His hair like silk threads or, she really couldn't think of anything that compared to it, it was quite possibly the nicest thing she'd ever felt. He was not a gentle lover, not really. He would kiss her savagely, then seem to catch himself and pull back to being gentle. Or trying to be. She wanted him as he was, and so when next he tried to pull back she caught his bottom lip in her teeth and bit it lightly.

 

That did it. He crushed her to him and kissed her breathless, kissed along her jaw to lightly nip at her ear—that felt good. She moaned and it sounded _**filthy**_ , out of control, and she felt him lick along the edge to the sensitive tip. _**Please, please,**_ she heard herself beg and was too gone to care. This, from a fully clothed kiss, my gods. She wanted more. She should not. He was an old _**dangerous**_ king from a savage realm, no one to toy with or amuse herself with. This was foolish but the _**feelings**_ , oh, could she even stop if she wanted to?

 

She pulled back to look at him, his eyes dark blue and lust blown, full lips slightly swollen, hair mussed. His eyes narrowed and he pulled her back to him, kissing along her neck and sliding a hand up to cup her breast and stroke the hard nipple through her tunic. She moved to straddle him and felt him hard under her, big, and for the first time in her life ached to feel a man inside her, to feel _**him**_ inside her. This was moving too fast, too much, she knew instinctively that this would not just be sex with him, it would be _**more**_ and she barely knew him. Her grandmother's warning about an _**attachment of the body**_ came to mind. She pushed on him and reluctantly, _**very**_ reluctantly, he let her go and she slid off him to the side of the settee.

 

Both sat there, panting, and after a moment he spoke, “Zaile.”

 

She looked at him, he looked remorseful and like he was trying to regain some distance from her, “Thranduil?”

 

“Your youth, this is not seemly.”

 

 _ **You certainly didn't seem to have a problem with how young I was last night,**_ she thought. But she knew the dance had definitely heightened whatever feelings he had for her. Maybe he felt differently this morning, but he certainly hadn't reacted like that. Still, she had kissed him, and maybe he felt pressured to respond. “My youth? I am an adult.”

 

“I am a king, this,” he seemed to be having some crisis of conscience.

 

“It was just a kiss, well several kisses. I, it doesn't have to be serious.” It's not like she was trying to trap him into marriage or some craziness. What was his deal?

 

His brows lowered and he looked disapproving, “You are free with yourself in your realm?”

 

What? Was he serious? Did he think this her first kiss? And really, who was he to judge her anyways? “What? Are you serious? Are you seriously judging me for a few kisses? Are you telling me that even _**kissing**_ is off limits in your realm? Or is this some double standard BS where it's ok for males to kiss who they like and not females?”

 

Clearly that wasn't how he thought that would go, and his eyebrows lowered further, “In my realm, we only kiss those we are _**courting**_ and we only court **_one_** person at a time with the intent to possibly marry them.”

 

“Whoa there, nope, no way, I, whatever I was doing it sure was not looking for a _**husband.**_ I just, I acted. I didn't think. I, wait, are you courting me?”

 

He sighed and seemed less angry, “I, too, acted without thought. You are _**far**_ too young for me to court.”

 

“Witches come of age at 18. I'm 52. That's not that young.”

 

He appeared amused, “I have nearly 7,000 years. For me, it is _**far**_ too young.”

 

He had a point. That was a very long time. “Fair enough. Could we just, I don't know, wing it?”

 

“Wing it?”

 

“You know, just go with the flow, just see what happens, be casual?”

 

He appeared utterly confused, “These words seem to mean something else to you than to me.”

 

She'd spell it out, “Could we occasionally kiss each other with no commitment and enjoy it, not as leading to marriage but for itself?”

 

His reply was instant, “No.”

 

“Because it would be unseemly?”

 

“Yes, extremely so.”

 

“Why? I...”

 

He sighed again, “I would want more than kissing. I already do. In a moment of passion we could find ourselves married. No. As king, it is far more complicated than simply kissing.”

 

“Well, that's no fun.”

 

He laughed, “Being king rarely is.”

 

“I think you should stop coming with me when I dance. It'll make it worse.”

 

“I will not tolerate another there,” his voice sounded angry, _**jealous.**_ So much for letting her go then. This was going to get complicated, she just knew it. Fuck.

 

“Have Tauriel defend me. She's not attracted to me, or have some other person not attracted to women.”

 

“No.”

 

She thought to say something, but decided this was really more his issue that hers. Eat breakfast. That would be a good distraction from all this seriousness over a few kisses. She wondered what he'd make of Mardi Gras. Or pretty much every college party ever. He made her grandmother seem positively modern. Still, he had set limits and she would respect them even if she thought they were frankly rather ridiculous—they were his limits. His stupid stupid limits. She wondered if he would stick with them and decided that she'd take it a step further and _**enforce**_ them, no touching at all, nothing that would not occur in a typical friendship. He might just get over her, but he might decide he wanted something more, but short of marriage—she was too young for that regardless of how attractive and interesting she found him. She'd leave it completely up to him and see what happened.

 

Breakfast. Focus on food. The tea was cold, but it still tasted good and she was really hungry now. As she ate, she realized she felt as if a great burden had been lifted from her and rather thought the dreams might not return, or might not be so bad if they did. That was a true gift. “Thank you for talking with me about battle. It really helped.”

 

He inclined his head in acknowledgment and then reached for a bun, buttered it, and began to eat himself. “I shall have one, possibly two, before you devour them all.”

 

She laughed, “Better hurry, then.”

 

* * *

 

Thranduil read the report over the settlement Zaile had danced next to. A fortnight had passed since then and still the magic lingered without diminishing. His people felt younger, lighter, less weary and other elves had traveled in to visit for a day or even an hour and felt much the same. It was definitely a geographic effect, much as a visit to Imladris or Lothlorien could offer renewal. There were other effects. The spiders avoided the area at all costs, preferring to turn and fight with no possibility of success as opposed to enter the area. His rangers were already using that spot as well as the other two spots to control the movement of the creatures and more easily eliminate them. It gave him a grim satisfaction to have even a portion of his woods so pure the darkness could not bear it. After so long being pushed out it was deeply pleasurable to push back.

 

 

Within the settlement, the young seemed more interested in each other and even among the long married there was more affection. He could likely expect an increase in population come next fall. This did not surprise him, having felt the effects of being next to her twice while she danced. He should take her advice and not be there for a third or consecutive dances, but again he doubted he would listen. The idea of another wandering in upon her unguarded, some dark elf or some human, was unbearable. Spade would likely protect her, but the thought of another even seeing her dance was intolerable. He would bear it and deny himself, control himself. Tonight would be a test of that—his rangers had pinpointed a few strategic spots that would enable them to better channel and fight both spiders and orcs. The orcs avoided the areas too, though he suspected it was more like their hatred of sunlight—something they could bear if they had too. It would be interesting to capture one and see what happened if it were held in the area. He would talk to his rangers.

 

His original problem with Zaile remained unabated, and he felt nothing so far for any other but her, not so much as a flicker of desire. That was not surprising, not really. He knew all the elleths in his kingdom of marriageable age well, too well to find them of interest. Had they been a good match, he would have at least found them to be intellectually interesting prior to this, and he did not. He had submitted plans for the potential dance to his council and stewards to consider and offer advice. They seemed pleasantly surprised at the idea, but would consider logistics and the plans of other realms and then offer him a report, most likely within a week. He found it hard to fully convey the relief he would feel if he found a more appropriate person to court. His council's reaction to Zaile as a potential queen would likely be a combination of quiet disapproval at her youth and strangeness and a discussion of the strategic benefits of her powers to the kingdom.

 

And she had no desire to actually be queen, there was that too. Her suggestion that they please each other without an eye to any commitment showed a simply astonishing level of nativity—what did she think would be the end result of such a liaison? Did she consider the possibility that they might form a bond they would later regret? Or did she simply plan to amuse herself with him for a year and leave? That last especially sat ill with him because it indicated that she had little actual regard for him and might have dallied so with others before him, an idea he found utterly unacceptable. She was far too different as well as far too young, though neither consideration lessened either his physical or intellectual fascination with her. For the first time in a very long time he rather wished he had the freedom to do as he wished as opposed to the power of a king. Then he dismissed the thought as utterly foolish.

 

Despite his well-known dislike of gossip concerning himself, rumors had begun regarding himself and his strange guest. Amusingly enough, none seemed to consider romantic interest a possible reason for his daily time with her. Trade, that she was a far flung relative, a secret daughter to Mithrandir (amusing thought that), another Istari here to help their beleaguered realm, or the daughter of some human or elvish noble fleeing war/a forced marriage/calamity of some sort were all possibilities. It was all very dramatic, divertingly so. He was cast as the fatherly figure offering protection, the grim ruler bargaining for the best deal in trade, or the king urging the powerful wizard to cleanse his land. Never as the lover. No doubt his people thought him incapable of it, or simply thought that such a young friendly lively female would make a poor match for their ancient bad tempered king.

 

They were likely right. She was ridiculously naive, almost unbelievably so. Her near immediate trust of him was evidence enough of that. It didn't seem to occur to her that he might use her desire to bind her to him and keep her here to his benefit—an idea that had occurred to him more than once. No, she offered him simple uncomplicated friendship and more if he wished. He did wish, very much, but her naivety made it that much harder for him to act on his desire. She was a constant temptation to his darker self, a torture he willingly submitted to daily. He found himself both dreading and looking forward to her time at Mirael's. He would forbid her to dance there, that was a certainty. Or she might do so if she notified him so he might offer her his protection.

 

At least one among the rangers who had previously protected her had let slip that she was the source of the renewal of the land. Hence, the daughter of Mithrandir/Istari rumor. His people were thankful to her but seemed to feel the same sort of reverential distance from her they felt for Mithrandir. Which she, much like Mithrandir, ignored. If she ate, she cleaned up. She cleaned her own rooms and did her own laundry, albeit using magic. Talked to everyone as an equal, which made nearly everyone somewhat uncomfortable until they simply decided it was, again, much like Mithrandir. There was now a running joke in his household about her pack. If anyone needed anything, no matter how outlandish, the joke was that Zaile would have one in her pack. It was not entirely unlikely—the pack had a truly amazing array of items as he had seen himself. Despite her oddities, she was popular with his people for her kindness and genuine desire to help. And her youth was charmingly obvious to all, which seemed to make her power less intimidating.

 

A few of the more enterprising families of the nobility had inquired discreetly concerning her lineage and her marital prospects. Two had even acquired the courage to approach him regarding a potential alliance. Thranduil's lips twisted in cynical amusement at the reaction his blunt refusal to answer any questions or to consider any alliance had received. Regardless, word had swiftly spread that Zaile was not to be included in those sorts of political or romantic machinations. And hence the rumors of her fleeing an arranged marriage/dark fiancee or some other unpleasant romantic entanglement that would preclude her being free to court another.

 

Which suited him just fine. She was unsuitable for him, certainly, but the thought of her being courted by another? He would not encourage such, not at all. It was unfair, certainly, but he simply refused to care. There were none truly suitable for her in his lands anyway, none sufficiently noble or open-minded. He struggled to accept many of her ideas and he was far more well traveled than many of his people. Last night, over dinner, she had discussed with him the various forms of political arrangements in her realm and posited that the monarchy was probably the worst of the lot, especially an inherited monarchy, and then went on to say that the major developments in human society had largely come about since they wisely did away with kings, that kings impeded development and very often used war to pursue their own goals as opposed to the benefit of their people. When he bluntly reminded her that he was a king, she said it was different for immortals, but not entirely so and then they had a complicated debate about the various merits of forms of government for immortals.

 

He was genuinely riveted. At first he was entertained by what he thought was her naivety, but the more they spoke, debated, and frankly argued, the more he realized she was likely correct regarding human political systems. He could not think of another unattached male in his realm that would have found such conversation genuinely interesting or one who would be able to match her intellect. Possibly one of the librarians, that Celebrimdal seemed overly fond of her though utterly unsuitable and below her in station. He was the child of one of the Noldor who had foolishly followed Feanor, and far too old for her even without the consideration of his cursed lineage. The ellons closer to her in age lacked any seriousness of mind. There simply was no one suitable for her in his realm.

 

She seemed to have accepted that he found the idea of courting her unsuitable with a cheerful equanimity that he found annoying. Conversation seemed to satisfy her, and she walked next to him as any other, not taking his arm as, “I don't see other men and women walking that way unless they are involved.” That was not strictly accurate—it was acceptable for him to escort female guests. But she was no longer just a guest and had learned her way around well enough that it would be odd for him to escort her. Days, he hadn't touched her in days. She didn't seem to mind at all which should please him but decidedly did _**not.**_ He found himself considering the idea of courting her,but not openly, then dismissed it as unbecoming of a king and an honorable ellon.

 

He glanced at the clock. In an hour or so he would get to test his resolve. Dinner had tested it sorely already. She had wore a perfectly modest gown that revealed a mere hint of creamy shoulder and he had wanted to tear it open and see more of her, or simply touch what he could see. There was nothing flirtatious in her manner, her look, she now treated him exactly as she did any other ellon, though with a proper deference when others were present. Her manner was utterly without fault and he found he missed the flirtation. It would be easier to avoid her but he would not deny himself the pleasure of her company and the stimulation of good _**new**_ conversation. He simply wished she were far older or that he were not so intensely attracted to her.

 

It was probably worse for him than it was for her as he knew how utterly good it would feel to lose himself in her, to taste her, to hear the sounds she would make. Worse, she was passionate and excited at his touch. He knew it would be better with her than with his former wife and he wondered just how much better. Kissing her was _**far**_ better, enough that he had become aroused while doing so. Instead of mild disgust, she had enjoyed straddling him and feeling him under her and he dreamed nightly of her doing the same naked with him inside her, woke shouting and spilling into his sheets as if he were a youth. No, he would not be able to dally with her—his desire to have all of her was far too intense. Worse, a darker part of him suggested seducing her as a pathway to an alliance she was clear she did not want with anyone. If he bound her to him via desire and intercourse, there would be no more negotiations over how long she stayed—she would be his wife. The benefits to his kingdom would be considerable, and to himself. The temptation gnawed at him.

 

Of course, it would be a scandal. He would enter the records of the elves as just slightly less evil than Eol and would justifiably join the ranks of the dark elves. To manipulate one so young and light into an unwanted marriage for his own personal gain was undeniably dark. Not quite so dark as Eol perhaps—he did not kidnap her at least. But he did manipulate her into staying in his kingdom; he had already started down a similar path. Still, when he remembered the sweet taste of her mouth, the happiness of the settlement, he wondered if he should follow the example of his former wife and simply take Zaile's offer and use it to get exactly what he wanted—her in his bed and a permanent part of his kingdom. All those kings she rejected, and he would have her, daily, over and over. And his kingdom would flourish.

 

He glanced at the clock—it was time to meet her at the stables and for her to ride out with a portion of the guard to the first selected area. She had explained that she might be able to do two areas as she was more powerful as the full moon drew closer. They would begin with one and she would try to stop once she reached a particular place. Generally she just cleaned an area until she ran out of power, but she would try to gunge it and stop. She regarded it rather like training and was excited about the challenge. The areas were not infested or particularly dangerous, he could likely rely on Spade to protect her but he _**would**_ not. He stood, swung on his cloak and belted on his sword. No armor as it was unnecessary for this venture. With a mixture of excitement and dread he sallied forth to put his resolve to the test, repeatedly.

 


	9. A Surprise

Zaile was pretty sure he'd crack before long. She'd so carefully refused to touch him or flirt while revealing none of the initial frustration she'd felt. That frustration had fairly quickly turned into amusement when it became obvious how annoyed he was at her seemingly cheerful acceptance of his limits. It had turned into a game of dressing modestly enough but allowing glimpses of more than was strictly modest for this realm. Ridiculous, really, that skin that seemed so utterly non-sexual to her was so obviously intensely erotic to him. The nape of the neck for example. She'd pulled her hair to the side and rubbed her neck and watched his hands tighten on the table with such force his knuckles turned white. That might have been her shoulders too—he seemed to have some thing for them too. It was so strange that it just seemed silly and hard to take seriously, so she deliberately stoked the fire. Glimpse but no touch, no flirting, you're just the same as any other male. 

It was obvious he hated it and was rethinking his “unseemly” stance. And, frankly, it was fun to tease him. Harmless, it's not like she wouldn't kiss him if he wished. She wasn't teasing him meanly. Maybe a little meanly but it was just so fun. A part of her suggested that this was a terrible idea, that this was an ancient warrior she was toying with after all, but she pushed that part down and ignored it. She could handle herself, and she could always open a portal and leave if he threatened her—her obligation to him would be broken by that. So, she teased him and enjoyed it. 

Tonight had been much the same. She had already danced at the first site. Since it was not such a dark place, more lightly affected than the area next to the settlement, she had been able to stop pretty easily. It had cost her some of her power, but not that much—she was still in full control of herself and felt fine. That had made it far easier to tease him. After dancing she kept her distance, refused to move closer to him, but smiled at him and stretched languorously like a cat. He took a step towards her, his eyes riveted, and then caught himself and turned his back to stalk toward his elk. Zaile smiled and mounted her own horse, then followed him back to the guards.

Now they were at the second site. The guards had moved away and Thranduil leaned against a tree with his arms crossed over his chest, and a frown on his face. She almost felt sorry for him. Right. 

“Thranduil.”

His eyes flicked to her, “Yes.”

“It's safe here. I don't sense a great deal of darkness here, certainly no more than Spade could easily handle on her own. You really don't..”

“I will stay.” His voice sounded strained and furious. Ridiculous. All this drama over a few kisses. 

“I don't need you to. I know that you...”

“I will stay.” He growled the last and a shiver went down her spine. Maybe she should leave the bear alone and not poke it any more? Naw. 

“Well, I just don't want anything unseemly to happen, I know how you feel about...”

“Be still. I will STAY!” His shout must have been heard by the guards and might have been heard back at the halls themselves. So extra, as her students might say. 

She shrugged and knelt to take off her boots and socks. No doubt he was now glaring at her—she'd picked up on his hatred of her shrugging quite well. Definitely going to crack soon. It would be interesting to see what was inside when he did. That little warning voice inside her said she might not like what oozed out but she ignored it. It would be fine. Besides, this was his issue—she had no problem with a few casual kisses. She wasn't tormenting him—he was tormenting himself, ridiculously in her opinion.

Striking a pose, she felt the magic well up in her, sensed the forest as one connected colony of life and began to push back at the darkness. Since this was the second site, she'd dance until just a bit before exhaustion, try to stop before she was at the point she'd be unable to wake if the nightmares returned. Soon she was lost in the pleasure of cleansing the forest, the gratitude of the land itself, the feeling of rightness that came from this work. That she was born to do this work in this place at this time. It was the oddest pleasurable feeling, like everything just fit. 

As she came down from the dance, the magic receding back inside her, she saw him stalking across the clearing towards her. His expression was pure hunger, dark, possessive, nothing of the controlled nonchalant elf he usually appeared to be. This elf was taunt and feral, the moonlight glinting on his dark robes as he moved with a slow animal grace towards her. Heart hammering, without thought she ran, her feet making faint crunching noises as she ran across the top of the snow. Spade caught up with her and she swung onto her back and held on as the huge cat carried her away. 

“Zaile! Stop!” She heard him shout after her, and after a few minutes she kneed Spade to pause and turn. He was no more than 40 yards away, and he stood waiting. She wasn't sure why she had run, it had just been a gut instinct. If he'd been a real threat, Spade would have attacked him. But then why had she felt afraid? Had it been fear? 

He began to walk towards her. Spade paced towards him and didn't growl, so she clearly perceived no threat from him. Then why did her heart hammer so at his approach? 

He paused a few feet from her, then said, “Why did you run?”

“I don't know.”

He cocked his head, then said, “Do you fear me?”

“Yes, sometimes. You're the king of this realm.” 

He sighed, and said, “Reasonable, but unnecessary. I mean you no harm.” He came closer, out of the shadows, the moonlight illuminating his face and turning his hair into pure silver, as if his hair were spun moonlight. He was so handsome her breath caught and her lips parted in a sigh. 

“Zaile. Come here.” He held out his hand to her. 

It wasn't an order, more a request. She wanted to, but then she didn't want to. 

He stepped closer, Spade butted her head against the back of his outstretched hand and he smiled and turned it to scratch the top of her head. Zaile felt the deep rumbling purr under her legs and decided she was being silly and had nothing to fear from him. She slid off, and stood leaning against Spade as he came closer to her, the shadows falling over his face as he reached out to stroke her hair.

“So young, so beautiful, so powerful, you have bewitched me.” His voice sounded raw, hungry, and a shiver of fear coursed through her.

“I, I didn't mean to. I was trying to respect...”

He laughed, but it wasn't his usual amused laugh—this was darker. “Were you? I suppose you were but it hasn't worked. Not at all.” His fingers slid along the sensitive nape of her neck, along her jaw and the side of her neck, a slow lingering touch that ended with his hand tipping up her chin as he leaned down to kiss her gently, almost carefully, his other hand stroking her hair and cupping the back of her head. This felt different from his previous kisses, deliberate. 

After a moment he stepped back and said, “Let us return to the halls.”

She felt lightheaded from the kiss and was surprised her let he go so quickly. There was none of the usual talk about her youth and how this was unseemly, the kiss itself less urgent. It was odd enough to be somewhat unnerving but certainly not unwelcome. Maybe he had decided to mellow out, or maybe this was one last kiss. But then why that speech about her “bewitching” him? He was so confusing and she didn't think he was actually playing games. Maybe he was just that different from her? 

“Sure.” She took the hand he held out to her and walked back with him to where the guards were waiting with the mounts. 

They mounted and rode back to the halls, an uneventful and fairly quick trip, then dismounted at the stables. She was tired, ready for a bath and bed but he turned to her and said, “After refreshing yourself, would you join me for wine and some of those desserts you favor? I will come to your quarters in an hour. ” 

She smiled and nodded. Magic always made her hungry and dessert sounded wonderful. “That sounds lovely.”

He smiled and said, “It will be just us, no need to dress for dinner. Wear what you wish.”

That sounded perfect, casual and relaxing. He left and she was slightly sad he didn't accompany her to her quarters as if he were courting her. So, a kiss goodbye then? There was no way she could figure him out, he was just too old and too different. Again, he reminded her of Maglor. He seemed just like someone from her generation...until he didn't. And when he didn't, he was disturbingly unpredictable. Maglor's valkyrie wife often talked him down when he seemed to turn darker, but he was different than the elves that weren't born in Arda. All his generation were different; grimmer, darker, more savage at one moment and more cultured the next and far more particular about points of courtesy. The old ones were strange, and Thranduil seemed to share that strangeness. Maybe she would become like that too when she was that old. 

She entered her quarters to see the attendant waiting for her. As she helped her undress, Zaile said, “Lileal, the king asked me to meet him for wine and desserts. He said to not dress for dinner, to dress as I like. In my realm, the clothes I sleep in and a robe would be more than modest but I am not sure how to dress properly for this. What would be suitable?”

Lileal looked surprised, then schooled her features into neutrality. “I will select garments suitable for you, Zaile, and assist you once you are finished bathing.”

“Lileal, your expression, is this...”

“My lady, it is nothing.”

Her face didn't look like it was nothing. “Lileal, please tell me if...”

“It is nothing.”

“Should I refuse to go?”

“No! Not at all. It is simply...unexpected that the king wishes company. He has become quite fond of you.”

“Oh, well, I think he is just being hospitable.”

Lileal smiled patiently and said, “Perhaps. It is good to see him desire company. Go, bathe, I will prepare.”

Zaile wasn't quite sure what she meant, but just decided to have a bath and not worry about it. She stepped into the bathing chamber and removed her robe then sunk into the warm bath. It felt lovely after the cold night's work, but she shouldn't linger too long. She soaped up and washed, washed her hair and then stepped out and dried off. Her hair took forever to dry and she had just a bit more magic so she dried her hair and stepped out of the bathing chamber. 

Lileal helped her dress in a diaphanous pale green silk gown, sleeveless but with multiple flowing layers down to her feet and a loosely fitted bodice that while modest seemed rather, well, sexy for a late night visit with the king. 

“Are you sure this is fitting?” The light shown through the layers allowing a glimpse of what was beneath, but not really. 

“Yes, my lady, it is perfectly modest for a casual meeting. There is an over robe as well.”

“Oh, ok, that works then.”

Lileal helped her into the over robe, which was really more of a long loose hooded cape in a forest green figured with silver. She then arranged Zaile hair and placed the emerald clip he had given her in it.

“Perfect.” Lileal voice was satisfied and somehow amused. “This will be perfectly appropriate for your meeting.

Zaile looked at herself and could not deny the clothes were flattering, beautiful even. She couldn't fault the comfort of the clothes—they were soft and very comfortable. And, yes, perfectly modest. But she felt a bit uneasy all the same. She wasn't sure why. If he planned to seduce her she was certainly capable of setting limits at the point she wanted to stop, and she wasn't at all opposed to a certain amount of pleasure with him. Likely nothing would happen at all, or he'd kiss her and then stop and have another talk about her unseemly youth. It would be fine.

“Thank you, Lileal.”

After she finished, Lileal gave her the choice of a few slippers and she picked a pair of simple pale gray slippers figured in silver. She sipped a glass of wine as she waited, and ate an apple—she really was hungry, he was right about that. After a short time, the guard announced him and she went to meet him at the door. He wore relatively simple clothes, a pale gray silk high collar shirt with matching loose gray pants and slippers, all lightly figured in silver thread and a deep maroon velvet over robe. His hair was loose and unbound with no crown or circlet. He looked handsome and relaxed, and offered her his arm to escort her.

“Lady Zaile.”

She took it and smiled, “Lord Thranduil.”

Together they walked the short distance to a part of the palace she had never seen before. Thranduil nodded to the two guards flanking an archway with a wooden door figured in intricate patterns of gold and silver leaves and they stood aside at his approach. As they entered, there was an area with a deep beautiful blue pool that did not seem to be for anything but perhaps the pure beauty for it, or perhaps it had some magical application. It was too public to be a bathing pool, surely, as multiple other rooms branched off from it. She wondered what this section of the halls was for, what families lived here—it was especially beautiful, the carvings more intricate and detailed, the tapestries more richly colored, just gorgeous and perfect. He led her past this area and further into what looked like a sitting room with a comfortable couch piled with cushions and a lounge that looked equally comfortable. The table was set with bread, fruit, cheese, wine, and multiple little cakes and sweets. 

Thranduil guided her to the couch and poured her wine then sat and poured a glass for himself. She reached and grabbed an apple and began to eat. He watched her while she ate, eyes half lidded, with an intensity she found strange. It reminded her of the first night she met him at Mirael's nearly two weeks ago. She supposed that soon it would be time for her to go back there and while she looked forward to that she thought she would rather miss the halls. Well, she would be back and it was not a long ride if she wished to go to the library. 

“This is delicious, thank you, Thraduil.”

“It is my pleasure to have you here.”

“I've never seen this part of the halls. It's so beautiful, even more so than the rest of your halls.”

He smiled and seemed amused, “You don't know where you are?” 

“No, not really.” 

“These are the royal quarters. The personal living space of the royal family.”

“Oh, well, it's beautiful.” 

He inclined his head and smiled, “I'm glad you like it here.” 

She wasn't sure what to say. It was beautiful, but it seemed odd for him to take her to his private quarters. Maybe it was just convenience? But there was a tension in the air that felt, well, sexual. He watched her closely and seemed to be waiting on something, or considering. 

He reached over and refilled his goblet, “More wine?” 

“Yes, please.” This was her third glass and she felt pleasantly buzzed but nowhere near drunk. She'd stop after this one. Maybe.

He leaned against the pillows and sipped his wine, seemed content merely to have her here. After a short while, she finished eating and relaxed against the cushions next to him. He turned to her and stroked her hair, then reached back and undid the hair clip he gave her to have it cascade around her shoulders.

“So exquisitely beautiful, truly you are an enchantress,” he murmured as he leaned in to kiss her. She knew she should stop him, that there would be another tiresome heartfelt talk about her youth and things being unseemly but she wanted him, wanted this, and he could just deal with that himself. If he wanted to kiss her, she was certainly willing, more than willing to kiss back.

He kissed her gently, cupping the back of her head and pulling her to him with his other hand at the small of her back. Unlike the other times, this felt unhurried, almost exploratory. He slid her robe off her shoulders and smiled when she did the same with his, both of them slipping their arms out. Placing her hands on his chest, she felt the warmth of his skin through the thin fabric, the planes of his muscles and his hard nipples as she ran her hands over him to his evident pleasure. He pulled her to him more roughly and kissed her, slid his tongue into her mouth and soon all she could do was feel. Cupping her breast, he ran his thumb across her hard nipple and she moaned and pressed herself against him. He was so strong, so warm, he tasted so good, oh. 

After a moment he stopped and she braced herself for his usual attack of conscience but it never came. Instead he kissed down her neck and slipped the strap of her gown down to kiss the upper curve of her breast then, when she arched into him and moaned, he undid the strap and licked across her hard nipple and then blew on it. 

“Oh, Oh, that feels good.” 

He kissed around her nipple, careful, gentle, then right when she was about to beg him to lick it again he sucked on it and she bucked her hips against him. With his other hand he stroked her other breast, over, around, across her nipple until between both she thought she might be able to orgasm just from this. Sweet Hecate, he was skilled. 

Suddenly, he stood and picked her up, carried her out of this chamber and into another, “My bed will be more comfortable for both of us, and I intend to take my time.” His voice was a hungry growl, and she realized that this was not going to go the way she thought it would, not at all.


	10. A Declaration of Intent

As she danced, Thranduil had decided, then and there, that she was his. He would not just court her, he would take her as his much as he might take a city or lay siege to a fortress. He had advantages over those other kings that had wanted her--she was tied to his service for a year and he knew she desired him. As much as he desired her? Likely not. But then he had hardly presented himself in the best light, a reluctant hesitating conscience stricken suitor is hardly appealing to most females.

 

His son, his council, his people would come to accept her eventually. He rather thought his people would be the easiest as they were already experiencing benefits from her magic. Some it made uneasy, especially the more sensual effects of it—it was definitely not elven magic—but by and large most were warily glad. Those in the halls were _**definitely**_ glad of his better mood. He was certain they knew it was due to Zaile, and he rather thought a few had decided he harbored a fondness for his guest. One of his councilors, Galadas had commented approvingly on Thranduil's convincing Zaile to serve for a year, then said, “And perhaps her service may become something more over the course of a year, my king.”

 

Thranduil had tilted his head and replied, “And how would the council view a prolonged stay by Zaile?”

 

“Once questions of motive and ancestry are fully answered, favorably my king, quite favorably I think. Most have not yet considered the possibility.”

 

Motive and ancestry, yes, his council and his people would be concerned with that. He was satisfied that her motives were good, but in the history of the elves more than a few fair seeming and helpful outsiders had turned out to be not. All had been male, and all had been Morgoth or Sauron in fair seeming guise, but it was a legitimate concern. As for ancestry, he cared not a whit unless she were a close relative of Feanor—impossible given her youth.

 

“Reasonable concerns, and sure to be made clear over the next year. She is part elven and part a race not known to this world, the source of her magic.”

 

“Yes, my king, and while there are concerns over this, the beneficial nature of her magic to the kingdom seems quite clear, and to my king.”

 

That last was bold, quite bold, and he raised his eyebrows and replied coolly, “I thank the council for their guidance but the king is quite able to see to his own benefit in this as in all things.” He then walked away, but not before he saw the other elf smile slightly.

 

Galadas was the most perceptive of his councilors; it did not surprise him that he was aware of his affections. Nor did his approval of Zaile. Zaile had mentioned meeting him in the library on multiple days and having engaging conversations with him about a wide array of topics. Only once did they argue, about the nature of evil and it's immutability. Zaile maintained it was a changeable state and choice often determined by how one was raised as opposed to nature, that a supposedly evil creature raised by good creatures would also be good. Galadas, of course, did not agree. That argument had ranged for hours through philosophy, history, biology, Zaile bringing out her computer and and Galadas using his long life and the many elven philosophers she had never read to make his points.

 

It had apparently ended in a draw, both with many things to think about. Zaile had requested to see an orc and asked if they really were all, without exception, evil. She had been deeply troubled at the idea of any creature lacking free will and doomed to the service of evil. Still, the conversation, among others, had given his councilor a good opinion regarding her and so he was glad of it. Though how he was to show her an orc without taking her into battle was something of a quandary.

 

Zaile's attendant, Lileal, also seemed to recognize that he felt more for Zaile than was strictly appropriate. She was discreet, especially for a young elleth of 124, but he caught her looking at them with a smile on more than one occasion. He suspected he also had her to thank for Zaile's markedly more appealing clothing choices, especially the ones of this evening. He rather doubted Zaile would have chosen this diaphanous green dress on her own and was quite thankful for Lileal's subtle meddling. She seemed determined to make Zaile as appealing as possible in an attempt to challenge his reserve. An effective strategy, he must admit.

 

Even had he not have decided he would wed her, he doubted he would have been able to resist her this eve. Silken midnight hair cascaded over creamy skin, her full breasts peaking and pushing against the silk fabric of her dress. So exquisite he had struggled to wait for her to finish eating before he kissed her. Now she looked up at him as he carried her into his chamber, her hand stroking his cheek.

 

He laid her in the bed then lay down next to her and pulled her into his arms, kissing her passionately, hungrily, and feeling her respond to him in turn, desire coursing though him for her. Soon he was lost in her, the feel of her soft warm body, her sweet taste, the moans she made as he kissed her neck and tasted her. Never, it had never been this good with any other, and he kissed her, wrapped both his arms around her and forgot all his plans and schemes for now.

 

Wanted her hands on his skin, his on hers. He sat up and pulled his tunic over his head and looked down to see her gaze at him in frank admiration, then sit up herself to brush his hair over his shoulders and run her hands over his shoulders and down his arms, then over his chest to rub her palms over his nipples.

 

“Perfect, you are perfect,” she murmured as she touched him. “Sweet Hecate, so incredibly hot.”

 

Hot? His body temperature was perhaps a bit warmer than hers...ah, not that sort of hot. He smirked then reached and undid the other strap of her tunic and she was bare to him to the waist. Oh, she was beautiful, curvier than typical for an elf and he liked it quite well.

 

“As are you, Zaile, my beautiful enchantress.”

 

She looked up at him at that, leaned back a bit and said, “My?”

 

“Yes, _**my**_.” He knew exactly what she was getting at—the possessiveness of the word and in his voice.

 

Leaned back further and he followed so they were chest to chest on the bed, kissed her before she could object further and cupped one of her breasts, teasing the nipple as she arched into him and moaned. He kissed along her neck, one leg between her thighs as he ground into her listening to her gasp of pleasure. Kissed and nipped until he lightly bit her earlobe, then up to what he hoped would be as sensitive for her as it was for him—the tip of the ear. He licked it, then nipped and sucked as she bucked and cried out. Definitely of elven ancestry then, he thought with a smirk.

 

“Yes, my, _**mine.**_ How else to explain your reaction to me? Mine to you? You are mine, Zaile, and I _**mean**_ to have you, I declare it now,” he whispered this in her ear then kissed her savagely, ruthlessly, before she could reply, so hungry for her. He reached to pull her skirt up and slid his hand along the smooth skin of her thigh until he felt the edge of those strange undergarments.

 

She was pressing at his chest, and reluctantly he leaned back to break the kiss, mere inches between them as he looked down at her.

 

“I, I am not,”

 

“Not mine? Truly?” He flicked his thumb across her nipple and enjoyed as a small cry came out of her, her eyelids fluttering shut in pleasure, “This is but the very _**beginning**_ of pleasure, Zaile, and you ache for me as I do for you.”

 

“Just pleasure?”

 

“No. I mean to have you to wife. You are mine. I recognized it when last you danced.”

 

“Wait, you said this would be unseemly, that you could not even court me?”

 

“Yes, others will disapprove, but I find I do not care. I am king.”

 

“Marriage, you want marriage?” She seemed at a loss, stunned, surprised.

 

“I mean to have you to wife, yes.”

 

“I don't want that.”

 

“Don't you? In my bed every night, the pleasure I brought you sounding off these walls as I bring you over and over.” He kissed down her neck to the curve of her breast, licking over the nipple then sucking it as she moaned, “No, oh, sweet, please Thranduil, _**please.**_ ”

 

He touched her over her underwear, then when she did not protest, slipped his hand inside them. He'd bring her, let her feel how much pleasure he could give her, just a taste really. One of her hands was in his hair, pressing him to her breast and the other dug into his back—he would have her marks on him on the morrow for certain. Smirked against her soft breast them kissed over to the other as he circled her then stroked over her center for the first time.

 

“Please, please, please,” over and over as he teased and touched her, lost in his control over such a powerful being, her taste, sounds of pleasure, he was hard as he had ever been and had never wanted another so intensely. He could tell she was getting close and he wanted to see her face when he first brought her, the first among many _**many**_ times. He looked down, she looked wrecked, out of control, her lips parted as she panted, then she threw her head back and a flush of red spread over her chest as she cried out, irresistible, perfect.

 

He leaned down, licked the edge of her ear as he continued to stroke her, “Mine, admit it, you are _**mine.**_ This nothing compared to how much pleasure I can bring you. Together we rule, and each night _**this.**_ ” He nipped the tip of her ear, sucked on it as she came again. So quickly, so responsive, how he would enjoy her. He slid his hand down until he felt how wet she was then brought it back to lick his fingers as she looked up at him and panted. “ _ **Yield**_ to me,” he growled. She would comply.

 

She shuddered in pleasure, then seemed to think better of it, “No, I, _**no.**_ ”

 

She moved to get off the bed and he caught her to him, “Did you mean to _**toy**_ with me?” He bit her neck lightly and held her, “Foolish.”

 

“No, I just, let me go. I need to think, this, no, I.”

 

He turned her to face him, “I will not force you but will you deny there is between us a link?”

 

She looked away, “I, please, I need to think, I.”

 

He was struck again at her youth and innocence. Had any ever touched her in such a manner before? Had he frightened her? He stroked her cheek, brushed her hair off her shoulder and was pleased to see her lean into his touch. How he wanted her to stay, but this was but a battle and he meant to win the war. A strategic retreat may be wise. Give her time to miss his touch.

 

“Of course. If you wish to leave, I will accompany you back to your quarters.” Stroking her hair, he said, “You are free to go.” He reattached the straps of her dress, first the left then the right, and combed his hands through her mussed hair. “But first perhaps I should brush your hair and my own.”

 

“Oh, ok, I, Thranduil I was _**not**_ toying with you. I just didn't think that it would go this far, or that...”

 

He held up his hand, “It is late, let us speak of this on the morrow. You asked for time to think and I agree my declaration may have been sudden to you.” He pulled her to him and kissed her again, then whispered against her ear, “But assuredly I mean to have you, let there be no doubt.”

 

She nodded, seemed at a loss of words—certainly a first—and allowed him to brush her hair and arrange her dress and robe until it very much appeared as if they had done nothing but linger over a meal. He was perfectly capable of brushing his own hair, but he had noticed her fascination with it, and how she had shivered as it touched her skin. So he handed her the brush and simply said, “Please.”

 

She looked up at him and arched a brow, “There is no way I can reach that high. You'll have to sit down.”

 

He smirked, then sat on a small backless bench and said, “If you would?”

 

She gathered his hair in her hands and pulled it back off his shoulders. “You should put your tunic on first.”

 

“No, after.” He wanted her to remember his body, and enjoyed seeing her look, then look away from him blushing.

 

She was quiet for a moment, then began brushing his hair with long slow strokes, running her fingers through it and sighing, “I think you have the most beautiful, the softest hair I have ever felt.”

 

He clasped her hand, “It is yours to touch whenever you wish, as is the rest of me. As you are mine, so I am yours.”

 

Silence, then she squeezed his hand and leaned over to kiss his cheek. He wasn't sure what to make of that gesture, but it did not seem a gesture of refusal. Then she brushed his hair for a time, and he let her grow used to touching him, to the idea that she could do so at her will. First his shoulders, then she ran her hands lightly down his back feeling the war-hardened muscles. Sweet arousing torture, how he wanted her. But not tonight, not yet. Tonight he simply baited the trap.

 

Finally, she stepped away and brought him his tunic and robe. He dressed, then tidied his hair and offered her his arm. Together they walked back to her quarters where he left her with a bow.

 

“We will have dinner on the morrow. I will see you then, Zaile.”

 

“Thank you for the wine and food, Thranduil,” she smiled but her eyes appeared somewhat troubled.

 

He bowed and walked back. He would need to plan his next move in this campaign.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	11. Flight

Zaile stepped into her room leaned against the wall for a moment as Lileal came to assist her. First the fey woman was smiling broadly and said, “How was your visit with the king?” But after she saw Zaile's face, she appeared troubled and was more subdued.

 

“It was interesting,” Zaile said and blushed. She wasn't sure how she felt about it yet. Only one boyfriend had touched her like that, after months of dating, and it had certainly not produced _**that**_ reaction, like her entire body was on fire, like she would agree to anything, give anything for him to not stop. But that had been a youth she now understood, though he had been 120 years old, and Thranduil was an experienced adult. She felt terrified, trapped—he meant to marry her and trap her in this realm. It had not occurred to her that he would _**want**_ to marry her, some stranger in his land, and one so ridiculously much younger than him and so different. There were plenty of other gorgeous single fey women in this realm, she had seen more than a few that were _**far**_ prettier than her. She'd thought he was attracted to her but that it would come to nothing but a few kisses. In fact he'd pretty much said as much, that he would never court her. This went from reluctant kissing to marriage in two weeks, two weeks! How was that even possible?

 

Everything her grandmother had warned her about, _**an attachment of the body**_ , she now understood, as well as the warning about oaths. She could not flee him because of her stupid oath, and had he pressed her he could have had her this night. She would have lost herself to pleasure and yielded to him, been joined to him despite her desire for freedom. Maybe. She was more witch that elf possibly—genetic percentages were unpredictable in Loreans--so she might have the freedom the rest of the Lore had to bed whoever they wanted and form no ties. She would not know until she had intercourse, and so it was a tricky business.

 

What did she even want? She wasn't sure, this was all so new. She liked this realm and it's people and felt a connection to the land. Thranduil made her feel things no one else did, some good and some troubling. He was so old-fashioned, controlling, dominant but also intelligent, wise, caring and the most gorgeous male she had ever seen. That was saying a lot as Loreans, by and large, were far FAR better looking than mortals. He was smoking hot, unbelievably perfect, and the thought of him for her lover every night, well, it was exciting and a little frightening—once he had her, he would never let her go. He already was possessive over her and it had been not quite two weeks. Two weeks! This was all so fast.

 

“Lady Zaile, is something amiss? Our king, he, well, he has his moods but he is not...”

 

“No, no, the king was more than kind. I simply have much on my mind.”

 

Lileal paused, then added, “He is quite fond of you, truly, and it is obvious to all that your presence pleases him.” She paused, “He would not intentionally hurt you, truly.”

 

“Lileal, he did not hurt me, not at all. He, he expressed his admiration and I was surprised.”

 

Lileal smiled, “But were you pleased with him?”

 

Zaile blushed and Lileal laughed, “You were!”

 

“I just, it was not what I expected.”

 

“You had no idea of his feelings? Truly? But you did not know him before, did you? He was quite grim, serious, moody. Rarely did he smile, at least out of kindness. He is quite different since your arrival.”

 

Zaile was unsure of what to say, so she said nothing. Lileal helped her undress, then prepared her for bed and left with a bow and a broad smile. Once she was gone, Zaile wished she could speak with her grandmother. She was one of the old ones and possibly she even knew of Thranduil or his family at least. Maglor might know him as well. He wasn't part of their family tree, she remembered that from the very basic history they were given as part of their education, but they might know of him and be able to give her advice on how best to manage this situation. She thought back on her bargain—she had the right to two days out of the month to visit her family and the right to come and go as she pleased. Casting a portal in his halls would disturb the multiple magical wards he had on this place and would be frankly rude. But she could leave and and go outside and cast a portal, take a couple of days away and clear her head. That really sounded like a good idea.

 

She could leave in the morning, but it would be easier to cast the portal now by the light of the moon. Her powers had just begun to wane along with the moon but she had nearly two weeks before they were at their lowest--probably better to go now while she had plenty of power to open the portal for the return as well as the departure. It wasn't exactly running away—she would be compelled to return—but a break sounded fucking great. After that she'd be at Mirael's for two weeks and that would give her a little distance too, just slow things down a little.

 

She hopped off the bed, went to the wardrobe and removed her normal clothes. Boots, jeans, sweater, warm jacket, scarf, hat, gloves—everything she'd need to be warm. She grabbed her pack and stuffed in her generator—she could recharge at home, the computer, but left most of her clothes and underwear as she had plenty at home and no point packing them up. Ok, ready. On a whim, she clasped the emerald clasp he gave her in her hair and then put the hat back on. Spade leapt to her shoulder and crawled into the hood of her coat. Quickly she penned Thranduil and note letting him know where she was going and when she would be back, that she needed to speak to her family, and left it in the bowl for messages. He would get it in the morning when he awakened.

 

Then she was off. There was no longer any guard at the door, but no doubt she would encounter someone who would be able to lead her to the exit, one of the guards. She knew the way to the stables, and there was a clearing quite near there, easily walking distance, that would be good for casting a portal. Yes, that would work. She'd head toward the stables and leave that way. She would also leave word with one of the elves that worked in the stables that she would be returning in two days and they would tell Thranduil in the morning along with the notification from her note. He might not like it, but he would get over it. She needed counsel before she made a potentially disastrous mistake and ended up trapped in a marriage she did not want. It occurred to her she had vastly underestimated Thranduil to find herself bound by oath for a year to a king with thoughts of marriage. Had this been his plan from the start? And was it out of love for her? He had spoken no words of love, just possession. Suddenly it occurred to her that he might very well be like those other kings—enthralled with her power as much or more than herself. But then Lileal said he was quite fond of her and had changed, become kinder. But to speak of marriage without love, it just wasn't at all what she wanted.

 

Though this was like the human middle ages, maybe the elvish portion of her people had not married for love in the past? She really didn't know as Maglor and the other old ones, including her grandmother, simply refused to speak of their past in this realm. They seemed to view it as a darkness they had gladly left behind which did not at all represent her feelings about this place. There were genealogies, but they largely began with the old ones, as if nothing had come before them. She'd begun researching the families of elves in Thraduil's library but it was a LOT of history, thousands and thousands of years, and so much of it seemed more like myths that actual history. Lighted trees and waking up and battles between gods, it was hard to know what was true and what myth. It was time to talk to her family and get the 411 on this place, the real history.

 

There was Badhor among a few of the guards, she liked him and he could likely open the door to the stables for her.

 

“Well met, Badhor, I would like to go outside. Would you open the door for me to go to the stables?”

 

He turned to her and looked both puzzled and disturbed, “Well met, Lady Zaile. I fear you will need the king's approval to leave, especially at such an hour.” He looked her up and down, “It appears you leave for a long journey?”

 

“No, well, I thought to return home for a couple of days.”

 

“We will speak to the king.”

 

He turned as if to leave, seeming to expect her to follow him, and she caught his arm, “I will wait and speak to him in the morning.”

 

Badhor shook his head, “My lady, he will want to know of this now. Come with me.”

 

“I would really prefer to talk to him in the morning,” she turned as if to go and this time he caught her arm, in a tight grip. The other guards stepped closer and their faces looked grim. She didn't recognize these four either.

 

“We will speak to him _**now.”**_

 

“Am I a prisoner that I can not come and go as I wish?” Her voice was full of outrage at the idea that she could not simply leave when she wished and had to explain her comings and going to anyone. It was bad enough to have to ask permission to leave, but to be brought before Thranduil in the middle of the night was ridiculous. There was no reason this could not wait until morning.

 

Badhor looked at her severely, “My lady, it is the dead of night and you plan to take your leave without so much as a goodbye to our king. I would be a fool and a poor guard to allow any guest to leave under such suspicious circumstances. Come with me, you may make your speeches to our king.” This time he pulled her arm and it was clear he meant to drag her to the king.

 

Without thought, she yanked her arm out of his grasp and said, “I will not be dragged before the king as a prisoner or a slave!”

 

Badhor stepped back, considered, then said coldly, “Then I will go and notify him of your refusal as well as your determination to leave.” He gestured at his fellow guards and they stepped around her with their hands on their weapons.

 

With dawning horror, Zaile realized that she was, indeed, a prisoner. Had she always been a prisoner, but in the nicest of cages? No one treated guests this way. Spade leapt from her hood, hissed and took a guard stance at her back. Zaile felt her necklace begin to stir and settled into a trance and prepared to cast battle magic. One way or another, they were leaving tonight. She would be no one's prisoner, and certainly would not be the forced bride of some king who might not love her, probably didn't love her. What other possible reason could he have to order his guards to trap her here? No one did anything without his order, so this had to be him. They had a deal, and part of that deal had been to be able to come and go as she pleased.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil was reading through a missive from Lothlorien. Of course it was in code—all communication was in these dark days even when delivered by raven. Dol Guldur, the Mines of Moria, Gundabad, all the ancient fortresses of the enemy were active and clearly war loomed on the horizon. His son had not returned from Imladris and he feared he would not see him for many a year, if ever. A foreboding of some fell doom hovered over his mind, though of what he could not say. Something was coming, assuredly, and nothing good. He considered sealing his borders, but decided that he would rather leave them open at this point and see what he could learn from those caught within their confines. Few travelers ventured upon even the elf road in these days and virtually none along the old forest road. He rubbed his eyes and set aside the parchment, considered the one bit of good fortune in his life—Zaile.

 

He should have used more subtlety, yes. Declaring his desire to marry her, what had he been thinking? Of honor, of what he would consider honorable—to declare himself committed to her, which he was. But he had seen her troubled eyes and known that it was too far, too fast. It would likely have been so with an elleth as well, unless she sought him for his position. He had spoken to her only of desire and not of love, not even of his fondness for her which went far beyond her physical charms. When did fondness become love? He was not sure he could answer that, only that he knew he needed her as he had not needed another in a very long time indeed, possibly ever. The degree of his feelings troubled him, the possessiveness and the desire, and his intense pleasure simply in her company—he had never experienced anything like this, not even with his wife. Desire, yes, but not the same joy of good conversation and companionship as with Zaile. Perhaps this was the beginning of love? He certainly felt more alive than he had in hundreds of years, possibly ever.

 

He looked up as Badhor came in, “Well met, Badhor. You appear disturbed, is all well?”

 

“No, my king. The Lady Zaile seeks to leave.”

 

Thranduil was surprised, but not entirely so—he remembered her face and realized she had been more troubled than he anticipated. “Bring her to me.”

 

Badhor bowed, then said, “I sought to bring her with me. She refused.”

 

Thranduil looked up, “Refused? On what grounds?”

 

“She said she was not a prisoner or a slave.”

 

What? It was simple courtesy to notify one's host and he could not afford to leave his halls unguarded. He would allow her to leave as she will, according to their bargain, but he had to have reasonable control of comings and goings in his realm. And why this sudden middle of the night departure? Ah, his declaration. He sighed in annoyance and the beginnings of anger. Many elleths would have been more than pleased to receive his attentions, and she fled him?

 

“Where is she now? Surely you did not give her leave to depart?”

 

“No, my king, the other guards are containing her.”

 

“Containing her? Did she refuse to return to her quarters?”

 

Badhor looked taken aback, then said, “I did not ask her to do so, I ordered the other guards to hold her while I fetched you.”

 

Valar save him, what she must think. “Lead me to her, Quickly.”

 

He followed Badhor and then came upon Zaile surrounded by four of his guards and looking absolutely furious. She caught sight of him and he saw fear flash through her eyes, dread on her face. He must have frightened her more than he thought for this reaction. He cursed himself for his lack of self control and felt a deep annoyance and _**hurt**_ , yes, his heart _**hurt**_ that she would seek to flee him without a word. It must have shown on his face as she looked away and down, seeming ashamed. Spade saw him and leapt onto her shoulder, seemed to feel that Zaile would be safe now.

 

“Badhor, you and the other guards may withdraw. I will attend to the Lady Zaile.”

 

“Yes, my king.” The guards stood back, bowed and moved away.

 

She shouldered her pack, turned her back to him and said, “I'm taking my two days this month, assuming I have your _**permission.**_ ”

 

He was instantly furious at the insult and her demeanor. Stepping forward, he circled around her and sneered, “Permission? Simple courtesy should have led you to bid farewell to your host.”

 

“My host? Or my _**jailer**_? Which one are you that a simple request to leave has me surrounded by guards?”

 

“I am your king, and as such you _**will**_ do me the honor to ask my leave before departing,” he leaned into her face and snarled, “with more courtesy than you have thus far lest you learn precisely how we treat those we _**do**_ imprison.” She looked taken aback at his fury, then met it with her own.

 

“ _ **That**_ was not part of our agreement. You agreed to give me freedom to come and go as I will,” she paused and seemed to consider what exactly he said and then said, “You are seriously threatening me with _**jail**_?”

 

“I did not agree to such _**foolishness**_. I agreed to allow you to leave with permission unless you were called to war. I specifically mentioned that you would not be permitted to leave if we were at war or in dire need of your skills. Did you imagine that you would be the one to determine my need of you? Does any _**servant**_ rule their master? You may be no slave, but you have contracted with me for pay as any other _**hireling,**_ ” he stepped forward and grabbed her arm, “And yes, I _**will**_ show you the inside of my prison before I will tolerate such _**insolence**_ from you or any other.”

 

“Fine. Take me there. I'd prefer the prison to one more moment spent in _**your**_ company,” she sneered at him.

 

He bowed and said, “As you _**wish**_.” He called to Badhor, “Take the Lady Zaile to the dungeons. Perhaps a night there will improve her demeanor and encourage her to be more amenable to reasonable discussion.”

 

If he thought her angry before, he'd not seen this face. Spade crawled out of her hood and hissed at him, and both their eyes fairly glowed with fury. It occurred to him that he had thoroughly infuriated a being of unknown limits and one he cared for.

 

She nodded, and turned to Badhor, “How do we do this? Do you put me in chains or do I just follow you? I'm unused to being _**jailed**_ so you'll have to help me out with the protocol.”

 

Badhor stepped forward with the other guards and said, “We will accompany you to the dungeons. You may walk between us if you will come willingly.”

 

“Oh, I wouldn't _**miss**_ this. The dungeons! What a treat! This'll make a great story for back home. My family and I will sit around the fire and I'll regale them with stories of the hospitality I received in Thranduil's dungeon and my time as a _**servant**_ and a _**hireling**_. I'm sure they will certainly be surprised.”

 

The guards flanked her and he watched as she followed them to the dungeons with her head held high. Stubborn as a dwarf and twice as proud! How dare she address him so in front of his guards! He would have her brought to his chambers on the morrow and they would continue this discussion. Thranduil sighed in utter frustration, unsure exactly how this had gone so badly.

 

* * *

 

Zaile had never been this angry, never. Not at her coven, not at her parents, never. It felt like an all consuming fire and yet she simply followed them down further and further into the bowels of the halls. They led her to one of the top cells, somewhat bright, airy, clean, though devoid of any furniture or even a sleeping pallet. Not even a bucket to relieve herself. How lovely.

 

Badhor opened the cell and said, “Your pack, Lady Zaile.”

 

As if. She made as if to give it to him but in actuality hid her real pack and gave him a conjured fake. In her many travels she'd often had someone attempt to steal it or take it from her and, when possible, she preferred to avoid a fight. Easier to rig the pack with an invisibility spell and a prepared conjuring spell for an imitation. Badhor took it, nodded grimly, then shut the door on her and Spade.

 

“The king deserves your respect, your courtesy. As soon as you are willing to show him such I feel certain he will release you.”

 

A cold day in hell, she thought, and ignored Badhor. She wondered what he would think if he knew of Thranduil's earlier promises, and his agreement for her to have freedom to come and go as she willed. She dismissed such ideas. It was clear that Thranduil's people would do whatever Thranduil asked of them. This was a different place and she had made a serious mistake by tying herself to this king even for a year. She doubted if jailing was enough to break the terms of her oath, but she could certainly leave for those two days. It would have been easier to cast under the moon, but she was perfectly able to cast the portal here. He, and any other elf with a role in the wards on his halls, would feel it but she frankly didn't care—she be through and gone with no harm done to the wards, more like plucking a string than anything else. She now _**needed**_ her family's advice and her oath would allow her those two days. If he refused to allow her to go to Mirael's, that might vacate her oath. She didn't know, had never made an oath she had to try to navigate. How furious her family would be at her idiocy. But they would help her.

 

Nothing to do now but admit it and get the advice she needed. First, she cast a barrier spell on the door to prevent anyone interrupting her. Next, she began to cast the portal. The cast was hard, far harder than it should have been when she was nearly at the full moon and at close to the peak of her powers. It sputtered to life and she _**pushed**_ at it to open but it remained stubbornly closed, as if the more power she used the more closed it was. She cut her hands and slung blood in the shape of a circle to reinforce the portal and link her life force to it. Suddenly she heard amused laughter, the warlock whose library she had used, _**his**_ laughter, and felt her life force drawn out in a whoosh. _**So that was why he was smirking**_ , was her last thought before darkness.

 


	12. Regret

Thranduil questioned the other guards concerning the confrontation with Zaile. The entire thing did not sit right with him, and he regretted that he lost his temper with her though the provocation had been _**severe**_. They did not fault Badhor, but they stated that once Zaile realized she needed to speak to the king, she offered to return to her room and speak with him in the morning. There was disagreement regarding her behavior. Some perceived it as ignorance of their customs and some perceived it as suspicious but confusing as they sensed no ill intent. All disapproved of the way she addressed himself but, though none said it, he sensed some sympathy with her for both her fear of him and her reaction to the sharpness with which he addressed her. He hardly remembered what he said, he had been enraged, but he remembered threatening her and calling her a servant or something equivalent.

 

Had Badhor allowed her to return to her quarters, had he held his cursed temper, this could have been avoided. Two days, he recalled her words, she had not been leaving long, just the two days they agreed to. Why had she chosen to turn her back on him? He had discussed that with her, and the incredible insult of it. She had done it purposefully. Yes, he lost his temper but she was hardly blameless in this either. Thranduil sighed. He would not wait until the morrow, he would speak with her tonight.

 

He was heading to the dungeons when he felt a great thrust of magic part the wards on his halls like they were no more than gossamer curtains. Zaile. The portal she spoke of, she was leaving him. He felt a spurt of panic—should she leave now she would doubtless not return unless her oath compelled her. Running, he quickly descended into the dungeons and right as he came to her door the power was gone, all of it, as if some force simply took it. The wards were intact, all was as before, but doubtless she was gone. Bereft, he felt such a sense of loss and then he came to her cell and felt terror.

 

She lay crumpled on the floor, neck outstretched, eyes wide and staring, blood stains across her jacket and her hands bloody. Spade lay limp across her belly. An eerie green light flickered over them, her pendant seeming to spin on its chain and spit green fire. Dead, they looked dead.

 

“Unlock this door, now, do it now! Fetch the healers!”

 

“My king, it is unsafe! I beg of you to wait for...” Badhor. He escorted her himself and stayed.

 

“I shall not!” Thraduil turned upon Badhor in a rage, “Had you not provoked her this would not have come to pass! Open it!”

 

Badhor unlocked the door. Thraduil stepped towards her and he felt the light burn him, repel him, as he tried to reach her. A warning. He stepped back and said, “I swear by the Valar I mean you no harm.” The second time he approached, the light lashed him, a streak of pain that burned across him with far more intensity than the first time. Thranduil stepped back, called upon the Valar and reached forward carefully with his own magic. He felt a being, a guardian, utterly devoted to Zaile and saw a link between it, Zaile, and Spade. Alive, they were alive though sorely wounded, near, so near to death he felt desperate to reach her, help her, he could not lose her.

 

The being would not allow it. He saw himself through its/Zaile's eyes, his cruel vicious sneer, his cold eyes, how tall and large he appeared, how he loomed over her and humiliated her, how afraid she had been under all that anger. He was a risk it would not take with its mistress so near to death she might tip over to the other side. It would end him.

 

Begged, he begged it, to be allowed to help and felt its deep skepticism. It flashed him a picture of himself wooing her, then one of him sneering at her and grabbing her arm, hurting her. The being found him incomprehensible--unpredictable, unstable, untrustworthy, uncontrolled. Too risky. No. A firm no.

 

Thraduil sent forth his fea, offered it to this being, let it feel his strength and what he could give.

 

_**No. Not safe. No. Go away.** _

 

Never had he regretted his temper more intensely, never had he felt so utterly powerless.

 

“And if she dies? What then creature? What will you have to guard then?” Thranduil stalked around the edges of the light, feeling for any weakness in the creature's shield.

 

He felt it waver. It was near depleted of power and unsure if she would heal, afraid it would fail again. How long would it wait for another hero? This time had been millenia, so long of nothing, no one, alone and purposeless. It had had purpose for such a short time, and it _**liked**_ this hero. He felt it consider him coldly, with dislike. No. Too risky. He saw his own angry face.

 

“I swear by the Valar I will not hurt her, not this night, not ever.”

 

Skepticism. The being considered his oath worthless, no true oath. False oath. A trick. _**Go away, fool. How stupid do you think I am?**_ Something about the wording, something. Thranduil reached for it, confused, and the being showed him a series of what it considered actual oaths and mocked him again by flashing images of his hateful sneering face at him. _**Liar.**_

 

“I vow to the Lore I will not hurt her this night and will assist in her recovery.” He had seen beings very carefully limit their oaths and he would follow suit.

 

The being considered the vow, scoffed at him for its limited scope—a single night of safety? He felt it hesitate, then decide. It sent him one last blur of images—a multitude of those it had killed to protect its masters over the millenia followed by his own face twisted in pain. He completely comprehended the message.

 

“Yes, creature, now let me help her.”

 

The light gradually receded and he knelt beside her, carefully laid his hands on her as the head healer entered and joined him. Thranduil sent his fea into her and reinforced the flickering light of her life, felt the head healer send her fea in as well. The guardian guided them and then thrust them out once it felt there was enough to allow her and Spade to regenerate. The light flared to life over her and he and the other elf moved back quickly.

 

“Allow me to move her to a bedchamber for her comfort.”

 

Nothing. The being ignored him.

 

He reached out with his magic and implored the being to not compel her to awaken a prisoner. He felt the being's disdain for him and then a consideration. Perhaps a bargain could be made.

 

“What would you have, creature?”

 

_**Vow. Month.** _

 

Thranduil understood. The being wished him to vow to not hurt her for a month, time enough for her to fully heal and recover her power. Time enough for it to recharge fully as well.

 

“Done. I vow to the Lore that for a month I will not hurt her, will allow no other to hurt her, and will assist her recovery.” Thranduil would vow longer, but he little trusted these foreign oaths.

 

The being felt surprised, satisfied, and withdrew, the light flickering down then guttering out. Thranduil carefully picked her up, leaving Spade sprawled across her belly, and carried both out of the cell. Trailed by the healers, he carried her to the royal quarters and into the chamber adjacent to his own. He declared his intentions before his people by this act, and saw looks of surprise on their faces. Badhor especially looked dismayed, as well he should, though in these times it was hard to truly fault him for his caution though certainly his discretion and tact left much to be desired.

 

Thranduil laid her on the bed, carefully lifted Spade off her chest and arranged the little cat next to her. He examined her hands first—they were bloody but uncut. Where had the blood come from? He opened her jacket, looked over her and saw no other blood on her clothes, no sign of injuries. Carefully he lifted her and removed her soiled jacket.

 

“Fetch clean water and cloths.” She hated to be dirty, at least he could clean her face and hands.

 

He left when the healers examined her and thus was present to greet Lileal upon her arrival. For Zaile's comfort, and to observe the proprieties, he asked Lileal to serve as handmaiden to Zaile and to select three other elleths she would consider suitable to assist her. They would serve as chaperones, confidants, assistants, whatever Zaile needed. But most of all they would serve to make it clear his intentions were to court Zaile properly and not to dishonor her. Lileal was pleased to serve and pleased that Zaile had been moved into the royal quarters until she understood the reason for both. He rather thought the young elleth disapproved of her king, and he could hardly fault her, especially after he read Zaile's message to him.

 

Lirael brought it with her, sealed in a silver message cylinder, and presented it to him gravely as she took her leave to attend to her mistress.

 

“She left it for you in the message bowl to be delivered in the morning when you first awakened. As you are awake now, I brought it with me. Perhaps it will offer some insight, my king,” she then left looking quite grim for one normally so lively.

 

Thranduil broke the seal and read:

 

Dear Thranduil,

 

I am taking my two day leave to speak with my family regarding your desire for an alliance. Though I have known you but two weeks, I feel a true connection to you and your land though it is so soon, too soon I think, to speak of marriage. Also, my people marry for love. Witches usually have fated mates they love, but nearly all of our branch of the fey choose our mates by courting and falling in love, by feeling as if we wish to spend all eternity together. Maybe it was different for our people in the past and that is why you spoke to me of courting and marriage but not love, I do not know. I am troubled by it and thought to discuss it with my grandmother, cousin, and some of the other fey of my family that grew up here. I thought that you also might like a couple of days to reflect and be certain of what you want and what is best for you and your realm.

 

It will be easier to open the portal under the light of the moon and as my powers have begun to wane as the moon wanes, now is the best time to go. I will return in two days as I have promised and will bring you more of the wine you love as well as some other delicacies from my realm. I hope you understand my need for the advice of my elders in forming an alliance that will last for millenia. I look forward to seeing you in two days.

 

With true affection,

 

Zaile

 

 

She left word for him, and her reasons for going, even for going in the middle of the night, were sound. She hadn't fled him, but was wisely seeking the counsel of her elders and notifying them of a suitor. Still, surely she had to know that the guards would question her. But then she had offered to wait until morning to speak with him and Badhor had forced the issue. By the time Thranduil arrived, she was furious. She spoke to him as if she were another king. That she regarded herself as his equal was evident to him in most of their interactions. Only when he was clearly her superior in some area did she defer to him, and then it was with ease and good grace. But it was not the deferral of a subject to a king. Her ways were different, her realm different, and it rankled him this idea of equality. And he had been hurt by what he thought was her desire to flee, angry at her sneaking out in the dead of night after he offered her what he had offered only to one other in a very long life. Furious at her turning her back on him, the deliberateness of the insult, her seeming disregard for him.

 

How wrong he had been. She was confused and afraid, and so she sought her family. That was before he sent her to the dungeons. The guardian showed him her terror of him under all that anger, how menacing he appeared to her. It sickened him to recall the face he showed her. Would she had been injured if she could have opened this portal under the moon as she wished? He knew so little of her magic but it would almost certainly have been easier if she had not needed to pierce the wards of his halls.

 

He watched as the healers emerged from her room and closed the door behind them.

 

“How is she?”

 

“Very weak, but alive. Lileal is bathing her and preparing her for bed.”

 

“Will she survive this?”

 

“Likely, though there may be injuries we lack the ability to perceive.”

 

“Explain.”

 

“Her body is hale and whole. No sign of any physical injury but her fea is incredibly weak as if she were recovering from multiple life threatening injuries. We have no experience with injuries of this kind, though we will monitor her and assist as best we can.” The healer spread her hands and bowed, and the others nodded in agreement.

 

Thranduil felt such remorse. His accursed temper, had he controlled it none of this would have come to pass. “Thank you.”

 

“She is young, her youth will help as it would with an injury of the body. It is our opinion she will recover, my lord.”

 

He nodded, then waved them away as he slumped into a chair to wait. After a time, the door opened again and Lileal emerged.

 

“She is prepared for bed, my lord. I will stay with her,”

 

“As you wish,” he stood and walked into Zaile's room to see her. He too would stay. Eventually the needs of the kingdom would pull him away, but he would be with her as much as possible.

 

She was so pale, her dark hair spread out across the pillow to dry. He looked and saw Spade laid next to her with a blanket. Pitiful, and again he was sickened by his actions. The memory of his face contorted with rage tormented him, and of her fear of him. He sat next to her and took her hand, closed his eyes and prayed to the Valar that she be healed.

 


	13. An Awakening and Some Perspective

Sometimes she felt like she was surfacing from a deep sleep but she wasn't ready to wake yet. But, for a moment, she would feel the sun warm on her face, or someone holding her and a deep voice asking her forgiveness repeatedly, or Spade warm and purring on her chest. Sleep was good, and her head still hurt and there were problems on the other side of sleep and so she kept sleeping. Maybe she'd just keep sleeping for a good long time—it was really peaceful here. Spade could eat for her and she could hide, at least for a little while.

 

* * *

 

Three weeks. Spade woke after one and, after a few days of snarling and glaring at Thranduil balefully, tolerated his presence. A week and a half after that, she appeared to forgive him and even take pity on him, purring as she butted her head against his hand for petting. Big blue eyes watched him as he nightly held Zaile and implored her to return to him. Bodily, she was fine. The healers thought her spirit wandered or perhaps it was a sort of fading for her kind. They were simply guessing, that much was clear.

 

If she did not awaken soon, he would take her to Lothlorien or Imladris. Imladris would be the better choice, but the mountain pass was difficult and dangerous in winter and no power under the sun could compel him to attempt the trip through Moria. There were plenty of dangers on the road to Lothlorien, but they were well known and largely predictable. For an injury of the mind and spirit, Galadriel might be the better choice though he liked it little. She would have advice for him and he doubted he would favor it. It was as certain as the sun's rising that she would meddle and he doubted she would approve his courting one so young. But to see Zaile awaken he would endure her assistance.

 

He watched her as she slept in the sun. She seemed to prefer it and so he worked most days in the solarium now. It was overly warm mid-day, but tolerable. The head librarian, that Celebrimdal who seemed so fond of her during her library visits, expressed concern regarding the effect of the humidity on documents and Thranduil agreed to have them brought to him one by one as opposed to having the entire stack in the solarium. A compromise the librarian agreed to, “for the sake of Lady Zaile's healing,” as if he truly had any authority at all--Thranduil could order the library burned to the ground on a whim. And he could feel the ellon's disapproval of him, see it in the set of the insolent Noldor's face. While he felt certain there were others who felt similarly, they had the wit or respect to hide their feelings. Celebrimdal seemed unable or unwilling to do so, and he made the poor choice to inquire after the health of Zaile on each his many visits.

 

At the surface, he was simply fulfilling one of his duties as keeper of records. But the task could easily be completed by one of the more junior librarians, and normally would be. Were he to inquire he felt certain there would be a reasonable explanation for Celebrimdal's actions, and the inquiry itself would paint him as overly jealous and suspicious. Politics. Celebrimdal was normally disinterested and satisfied at his role as head librarian, but no longer. Thranduil felt unsure as to his motive and ultimate goal, but that they involved Zaile was as clear as his disapproval. It was troubling.

 

Perhaps Elrond could use another librarian? No, it would show weakness to dismiss him and create difficulty with Galadriel whose distant kinsmen he was. He would simply observe him unless he crossed into discourtesy. But so far the Noldor stopped just before the edge of offense, but very very close. His interest in Zaile was displeasing but unremarkable on the surface. Badhor inquired after her often as well, though that was so clearly out of guilt that he took no offense. Celebrimdal's eyes lingered a little too long, his hands sometimes moved as if he wished to touch her. No, it was not the same but it was too subtle to openly confront.

 

Lileal expressed her disapproval in the choice of clothes she selected for Zaile, choosing colors that expressed dislike, mourning, and contempt. Aside from the colors, the clothes were shapelessly modest and likely very comfortable. He hadn't recognized the color pattern immediately—it was more typically used with flowers as opposed to clothes. But after three weeks of the same colors he was nearly certain Lileal was subtly expressing her opinion of his actions. Impressive in one so young, and he frankly had no disagreement with her sentiment. He was not overly fond of himself these days either.

 

Any punishment another could mete out did not compare to the idea that Zaile was fading. Once it began the only option was to go into the West. Did she even have that option? He knew so little of her people. She did not eat, drink, or expel waste but she breathed and sometimes shifted position. Despite not eating and drinking, she did not appear to be wasting away and physically appeared fine. Her fea seemed to be renewing itself in some way, or at least that was the most hopeful interpretation. Thranduil rubbed his temples and set down the missive from Erebor—his concentration was poor and his temper short these days. He would take a break and sit next to Zaile for a time and tell her again how deeply he regretted his actions.

 

How he missed talking with her, far more than any intimacy between them. Her strange yet thoughtful perspectives, her humor, her naive belief in the natural goodness of most beings, her intelligence, the sheer unpredictable nature of her mind, he wished he would have told her how fond he was of her. He likely was in love with her, though it was so early he would be a fool to say he was certain of it. And yet he spoke to her of marriage. He'd wanted her so badly, liked her quite well indeed, and decided that enough. It was for him, certainly—his goals remained the same. But he realized now that for her people marriage was only between those who loved one another. Love developed over time, and so he would need to be patient. No doubt he would have much work to do when she awoke.

 

He looked down into the part of the solarium where she lay, the sunniest part, and stilled when he saw she was sitting up, her back facing him. His heart pounded as he stood and quietly approached her. She held Spade and petted the little cat, speaking to her too softly for him to hear. Hearing her, seeing her awake, he thanked the Valar for their mercy.

 

“I regret my actions, Zaile, and my hateful words. You are no servant and no hireling to me. I am very fond of you, truly, though I know my actions did not reflect this,” he thought it best to begin there, though in truth he was unsure.

 

She stilled, but did not turn, and said, “It is time for me to go to Mirael's.”

 

His temper began to rise at her turned back, but he quelled it, “Of course. But I would ask you to see the healers first and dine with me this night. Leave on the morrow.”

 

“Of course, my king. Might we dine in the common area with others?”

 

“I would speak with you. We dine alone.”

 

She shivered, hunched in slightly. Fear. She was perhaps afraid even to face him and meant no discourtesy, “Do not fear me. I vow to the Lore I will do no more than speak with you this eve and shall accompany you to Mirael's on the morrow.”

 

She turned to look at him then, her expression surprised, “How do you know about that, about vowing to the Lore?”

 

“Your guardian required a vow from me to allow me to heal you.”

 

“My guardian? Spade?”

 

“No, another entity.”

 

“The necklace. I didn't realize it was alive. Huh.” She looked up at him, “What did you vow?”

 

“To not hurt you and protect you for a month.”

 

“How long have I been resting?”

 

“Three weeks.”

 

“Three weeks,” she paused and petted Spade, seemed lost, so subdued compared to her former self, “I nearly died.”

 

“Yes. It was quite close.”

 

“I'd like to go to my quarters now,” she looked up at him as if for permission, then looked away, “if I have quarters.”

 

“You do,” he knelt in front of her and took one of her hands in his, “Zaile, I know not how to repair this between us but I swear by the Valar that I mean you no harm.”

 

She nodded, “I know, my king. Thank you.”

 

He sighed, “That was the careful answer of a courtier, not the truth. But I will show you over time you have naught to fear from me.”

 

“Of course, my king. I would prepare for dinner, if you please.”

 

It struck him that she was giving him the same sort of bland agreement he received from some of his subjects. He did not favor it from her, not at all. But he would leave it be for now—no good would come of pushing her. “First, the healers.”

 

“Yes, of course. Thank you, my king.”

 

“Would you permit me to escort you to the healers?”

 

He offered her his arm and she took it. But she did not smile at him as she had before. She was much changed and it worried him, her seeming fear and passivity as much as her carefully bland courtesy. Previously so easy to read, open and trusting to a degree he would deem foolish, she now was impenetrable to him. Distant even as she was present with him. As they walked though the halls, she remained silent, simply allowed him to guide her. Detached, he sensed no anger in her, simply a detachment. Much as those who long for the West become detached. Or as a careful courtier in a dangerous court. Or some other reason he could not divine—she was not like him and he had treated her as if she were one of his people, as if she would forgive him his temper and rages. No, as if she _**must**_ forgive him, or pretend to it. And now that she gave him the deference he thought he wanted he found it bitter. It was not born of respect, of that he was certain—his actions had not been worthy of respect, rather the opposite. It could only be fear and it sickened him that one so innocent and lively should be so afraid of him.

 

They reached the halls of healing and he escorted her inside and found the head healer,Celebredom.

 

“Lady Zaile, well met! I rejoice to see you have awakened. Come, let us see you and speak.”

 

The healer led her into his examination room and had her sit. Thranduil watched as he carefully verified her physical health and listened as he began to question her on her feelings. Again, her answers seemed careful and lacking in honesty. It was important she be honest in this.

 

“Zaile, in this you must be honest. If you prefer, I will leave.”

 

She was silent for a moment, then said, “No, my king, of course I am pleased to have you here.”

 

He sighed, “Zaile, I,” what could he say? He would simply leave, he could do that, “I will await you outside the halls of healing. I ask you be honest with the healer.”

 

He left and paced out to await her, ran his hand through his hair in frustration and guilt. After a time, Celebredom met him.

 

“How is she?”

 

“Physically, healthy. Mentally, I am unsure. Her answers paint a picture of happiness her demeanor does not.”

 

Thranduil sighed, “Is she fading?”

 

“I think not. It is more that she does not trust me enough to show any weakness. She is afraid, but trying to hide it.”

 

Thranduil nodded, “What would you recommend?”

 

Celebredom hesitated, then said, “Patience, gentleness, kindness. She is hurt but hiding it. Allow her to heal in her own time.”

 

“I will do so.”

 

He looked to say more, hesitated, then said, “My king, it may be you find yourself provoked. If so, perhaps the Lady Zaile might come to the halls of healing in such times.”

 

“As opposed to the dungeons, I presume?”

 

“Yes. I doubt she will survive another experience of that sort. She would not tell me what happened prior to our finding her, only that she tried to leave and could not.”

 

“She used magic to part our wards. Other than that, I do not know.” He suspected she attempted to return to her people via a portal, but he would wait and speak with her.

 

Celebredom looked at him pointedly, “She is still weak. Another attempt will kill her. It is imperative she refrain from trying. I have warned her, but if she feels desperate I suspect it will not matter.”

 

Ah, was he such a monster then that his people found it necessary to warn him to not throw an injured female into the dungeons? “I will send her to the halls of healing should it prove necessary. She plans to travel to Mirael's for two weeks on the morrow. Is this advisable?”

 

“It will likely be good for her. I will attend her there and Mirael has some healing knowledge as well. She is both patient and kind.”

 

As he was not, was the implied criticism. It rankled, but he could not disagree. “Very well.”

 

“I will fetch her, my king,” the healer paused, “She is very young.”

 

“Yes. Though her people mature as humans.”

 

“Some of her people. She is peredhil.”

 

“Yes.” He quite caught the healers implication—too young, too innocent, too gentle for one as grim as himself.

 

After a moment the ellon went inside and returned with Zaile. “She should eat upon returning to her quarters.”

 

“I will see that she does,” it was nearly time for the midday meal, he would join her.

 

He offered her his arm and she took it. Swiftly he guided her back to the royal section. As they neared the doors, she hesitated, then allowed him to guide her inside. He led her to her quarters and said, “Lileal will assist you in any preparations you might wish. I will have the kitchen prepare whatever you wish. What would you favor?”

 

“Bread, cheese, fruit, I am happy to eat whatever you care to provide, my king.”

 

“Zaile,” he tipped her head up to look at him, “would you call me Thranduil?”

 

She looked away, “I think it is important I remind myself you are my king, Thranduil.”

 

His name sounded different in her mouth, and he did not favor the change. But he would let it be for now, “I will return in an hour. We shall have lunch in the garden, unless you would prefer another spot?”

 

“Thank you, Thranduil. I will be ready.”

 

* * *

 

“Lady Zaile! How glad I am that you have awakened!”

 

Zaile smiled to see her attendant Lileal run towards her and embrace her.

 

“Thank the Valar you are well.” Lileal leaned back and looked at her, “Are you well?”

 

“I am,” it wasn't exactly a lie. She was weak, her powers at the lowest she had ever felt, as well as Spade's. If this was all she had after three weeks and at this phase of the moon, well, she had come very close to death indeed.

 

And she was trapped here in this realm, maybe forever. It was an unknown realm and, as far as she knew, the last person to wander into it was Maglor's valkyrie wife thousands of years ago. Somehow she had found a path out, or more likely someone had come looking for her and given both her and Maglor and the rest of the old ones a way out. But she had just needed a portal opened. Normally, Zaile could open a portal easily but somehow the warlock had cast a spell to trap her in this realm and to siphon her power when she attempted to leave. Had it not been for the necklace she would be dead. Even if another found her, she might not be able to leave. The spell could apply to portals she cast, or any portal from this realm.

 

So she might have to make this place a home of sorts, at least until she found a way around his spell or her family and coven figured out what happened and managed to convince the warlock to lift the spell or found a way to break it. She might be here a very long time indeed. No one knew she'd gone to the warlock's, she hadn't thought to tell anyone as it was a rare gap in his security that would close quickly, more luck that anything that she learned of it, if luck it could be called now.

 

She'd have to deal with Thranduil, there was no way around that now, and no help for her to call on.

 

Lileal cleared her throat and Zaile realized she was staring off into space as she thought. “I'm sorry, Lileal, I...”

 

“Do not apologize, Lady Zaile, I know what happened to you,” she laid her hand on Zaile's shoulder and said, “would you care for a bath or food? How may I help you?”

 

“The king wishes to eat with me in an hour, less since he said an hour from when I arrived here. I should bath and dress for that,” she had zero desire to eat with the male who had thrown her into his dungeons but unless she wished to return to them she would need to defer to him, at least for now.

 

Lileal's eyebrows raised and she looked mutinous, “If you prefer, I will tell him you are indisposed and call for the healer to support me.”

 

Zaile doubted that would make any difference. It was clear she was his prisoner and he regarded her as no equal. He had been kind, for a time, but no matter how nice the cage it remained a cage. Guests were not cast into dungeons, and certainly not for the sin of trying to leave. “I should bath and meet him.”

 

Lileal looked outraged, “You feel you must! Truly, it is _**not**_ so among us. I will speak with the healer. I will speak to the _**council**_ if I must!”

 

“Please. Just let me bath and meet him. Please,” she simply didn't have the will to fight right now, “Please, Lileal.”

 

Lileal led her to the bath and said, “Have you need of assistance?”

 

“No, I would prefer time alone,”

 

“I will return in time to dress you. Be at peace, Lady Zaile.”

 

“Zaile, please just call me Zaile, Lileal.”

 

“As you wish,”

 

Lileal left in something close to a fury and Zaile lay back against the edge and sighed. Perhaps if she could get to Mirael's she could rest for a time and continue her studies. It was possible the books she scanned might have a solution for her dilemma or at least illuminate it.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil looked up as his guard announced the arrival of Celebredom. He was dressed for lunch and was about to fetch Zaile and felt some irritation at this interruption.

 

“Yes?”

 

Celebredom appeared deeply uncomfortable, “My lord, Lileal has expressed concern that the Lady Zaile feels compelled to meet with you for reasons other than state.”

 

“I wish to speak with her regarding matters that concern only us, yes.”

 

“Perhaps such, ah, _**discussions**_ might be better postponed until she has fully recovered.”

 

Thranduil's anger began to rise, “I will _**speak**_ with her _**only**_. You forget yourself, Celebredom.”

 

“Perhaps. My priority is the health of Lady Zaile.”

 

“Implying that my priority is _**not**_?”

 

“No, my king, I merely wished to relay Lileal's concern as I thought it might be of interest to you regarding your interactions with the Lady Zaile.”

 

“I thank you for your concern,” his voice dripped with sarcasm.

 

Celebedom bowed and said, “I will check on the Lady Zaile after she eats.”

 

“That is wise, but I ask you to limit your discussion of her health to myself and your fellow healers,”

 

“Of course, my king, I will remain discreet as always. Though the council have asked to be appraised of her condition and I am certain you would wish them to remain informed.”

 

“Certainly, but I will do so myself. You may discuss your _**concerns**_ with me alone, is that clear?”

 

“Yes, my king, quite.”

 

“Good. You have long been in my service, Celebredom. I thank you for it,” Thranduil sighed and softened his tone, “I am fond of her and mean her no harm, I swear it. I have not grown so dark as to force my attentions on another.”

 

The healer relaxed somewhat and said, “I think she fears you desperately and considers herself your prisoner. She will lie, attempt to please you to avoid your wrath. Were she to try to escape again in the same way, she will die. My king, this calls for care, patience, and gentleness...”

 

“That you consider me incapable of. I _**quite**_ understand, Celebredom,”

 

The healer looked taken aback, then nodded, “It is not often called for in a king. You are a mighty warrior, a great king. We owe our lives to you and the safety of our kingdom, all know this.”

 

“I will speak with her. I must.”

 

“Then speak with her with the gentleness you would show a child. Do not press her, my king.”

 

He sighed, “As you wish,” he looked at the other male, “I regret my actions with her, I tell you this plainly, and seek to make amends.”

 

Celebredom bowed and said, “I wish you good fortune then, my king.”

 

* * *

 

It seemed quite some time before Lileal returned, and after she bathed and washed her hair she spent it soaking, allowing her mind to wander but refusing to think further on her predicament. She missed her family, and felt a homesickness that surprised her now that she was trapped here in this place. After bathing, Lileal dried her hair gently, even more gently than usual and her kindness caused Zaile to begin to tear up. Perhaps she had one friend here aside from Spade.

 

“You do _**not**_ have to meet him,” Lileal said fiercely.

 

But of course she did. “I am hungry and we will eat in the garden. It will be fine.”

 

“It is _**not**_ fine. You cry at the thought of it.”

 

“No, I am, I miss my family and you are so kind. That is why I am crying,”

 

Lileal humphed, then gently braided her hair and pulled it back into a bun and covered it with a plain black cloth so it was entirely hidden from view. That was odd, as was her choice of no jewelry at all. The dress was also black and free from any ornamentation, high necked, loose, but very soft and warm. Lileal added a robe of a sort of brown black wool that was again very soft but gave her skin a faint yellow cast that made her appear sickly. It occurred to her that Lileal was working to make her as unappealing as possible and for the first time she genuinely smiled in amusement.

 

“This is frankly hideous. I love it,” she said with a smile.

 

“Yes, it is perfect for your lunch with the king. Unless you have a better garment in your pack?”

 

“No, I think this might be the ugliest outfit I have ever seen.”

 

“Oh, my lady, no. I and your other handmaidens are constructing a yellow one that will far outshine this.”

 

“Yellow. I look terrible in most shades of yellow. Perfect.”

 

Lileal laughed and Zaile joined her. A knock came at the door and the guard announced the king. Lileal squeezed her hand and said, “He seems to be remorseful, but...”

 

“I know. Thank you for your friendship.”

 

She stepped through the open door and looked up at him. He looked resplendent, incredibly breathtakingly handsome in a pale blue tunic figured in silver. Bowed his head and offered her his arm as he said, “Would you join me for lunch, Zaile?”

 

As if she had a choice. She laid her hand on his arm and nodded, her heart pounding. Eat and get back to her quarters without angering him and without agreeing to anything else, that was her only goal.

 

He led her to a different garden, smaller but far more lovely if a little wild. “This is the private garden of the royal family. Somewhat neglected now as I have little time to tend it and sometimes forget to have the gardeners attend to it. None may come here without the express invitation of myself or my son. You are welcome here and may come and go as you please.”

 

“It's beautiful, thank you, my king.”

 

He looked to speak, then stopped himself. Oh, Thranduil, he wished her to call him Thranduil. “Thranduil, I mean,” she said quickly.

 

His eyebrows rose and he looked pained, “Address me as you see fit, Zaile. I have no right to demand you to speak to me as a lover, none at all.”

 

She had no idea what to say to that and so she simply allowed him to lead her to the table set in the garden and took the seat he indicated on the settee facing the table. Surprisingly, he did not sit next to her but opposite her on the other side of the table, a distance she welcomed. She waited for him to break the bread, and began eating. Ravenous, she was ravenous and thankfully he had anticipated that as the table was set with enough food for a legion, and all delicious. Her favorites were all there, and many new dishes. She ate rapidly and then sat back and sipped the water she requested—she did not trust herself with wine, she needed her wits.

 

She looked at him, he was so handsome but she could better understand now why his wife left him. But she hadn't feared him if she publicly denied him, or perhaps she fled first? Zaile looked away. Her heart hurt and in that moment she realized she more than liked him, that she was hurt by his behavior and disappointed to find him cruel, to know that he did not regard her as an equal.

 

Best to be silent when she had nothing good or honest to say. Be wary, be strong.

 

The silence stretched between them and she shivered in her robe—it was cool in this garden. He stood and removed his robe and covered her with it and that gesture, so simple but kind, surprised her.

 

“Thank you.”

 

He inclined his head and said, “I care for you very much.”

 

Perhaps he did, in his own way, but she doubted it was much like what she would think of as love. How could you love one you regarded as your inferior? And care was not the same as love.

 

“Thank you, Thranduil.”

 

He sighed, “Zaile, I regret my harsh words, my temper, my actions. If I could take them back, choose a different path, I would. You are no prisoner here, I swear it.”

 

Right. What a load of crap _**that**_ was. The dungeons would argue otherwise. “Of course, Thranduil,” she said softly. What the fuck else could she say? If he got angry enough she'd be right back in them again. The best predictor of future behavior was past behavior, her grandmother had taught her that.

 

Again he knelt in front of her and took her hand, “You do not believe me. I understand. How might I make amends?”

 

“There is no need for amends, my king,” and she would not make the mistake of opening herself to him again.

 

“Another lie. You fear me, of course it is so. The guardian showed me your fear, how I appeared to you, how I hurt you. I ask your forgiveness. When I thought you dead, and when you did not wake, I know not how to express the depths of my fear for you and my sorrow.”

 

He sounded so sincere. She looked at him and saw a humility she had never seen before—could she trust him? Why would he pretend to such regret?

 

“I, I,” she had no idea what to say. She knew what she wanted to say. Why were you so angry? Why did you hurt me? Why did you threaten me with jail for simply wanting to leave for two days as they agreed? How can you care for me when you think so poorly of me, that I am so far beneath you? Why would you wish to marry someone you had so little respect and regard for? And, she realized, she was angry at that too. She was _**not**_ beneath him, at least not as reckoned by her realm. She had seen their relationship more as employee and employer, not as servant and king. She had been naive.

 

“Zaile, I would have you be honest with me,” he cupped her cheek gently, “please.”

 

“Don't touch me,” she pushed away his hand then froze as she realized what she had done.

 

“Of course, I beg your pardon for my familiarity,” he stood and returned to his seat opposite her.

 

She was annoyed to find she missed him holding her hand, and confused. And afraid, but he did not seem angry at her rejection simply saddened by it. Honesty, he wanted honesty. Perhaps she would try just a little.

 

“Why were you so angry at me? Why, why did you imprison me?”

 

He angled his head, sighed and said, “You turned your back on me and _**accused**_ me of being your jailer. You offered me severe insult, the same you had offered me in the past, but in front of my guards, in my halls, after enjoying my hospitality. You spoke to me as if I were an enemy, and one beneath you.” 

 

She thought back. He had a point. She hadn't thought of the insult of turning her back, had just done it because she was angry and afraid. But he _**had**_ told her it was incredibly disrespectful and to do so in front of his people, yes, she could see now why he had become so angry--she had humiliated him. But that jailing part, the actions of his guards--how was she not a prisoner? 

 

He continued before she could speak, “I regretted sending you to the dungeons immediately, had never intended anything but to give you leave to go and ensure your safety." He fixed her with his fierce eyes and said with some irony, "I am not wont to imprison those I court and cared little for the appellation of _**jailer**_ , was incensed to be so accused. Once my anger cooled and after inquiring with my guards and reading the message you left me, I immediately moved to release you, was near to the dungeons when you parted my wards and were injured.” He stood and began pacing, “I meant you no harm, indeed I mean you no harm, but I am a warrior king of a perilous kingdom. I lack the gentleness, the patience, one of your youth needs, I know this. I know I am unsuitable for you, and yet I hope to win you. But I will not force you, I swear this. I am not your jailer, you are no prisoner. I wish merely to keep you safe.”

 

But he _**had**_ jailed her, he _**was**_ her jailer, it was no false accusation. He had done so, and could do so again and none could or would stop him. She had provoked him with her accusation, and she could see that it had hurt him, but it didn't change the fact that he chose to prove her suspicion right. What else was she supposed to think when she couldn't leave freely and was surrounded by armed guards? Wasn't that sort of the definition of being a prisoner? What the fuck could she even say? 

 

"I apologize for the insult I offered you, Thranduil. I was afraid and angry. In my realm being surrounded by armed guards is pretty much a good indicator of being held prisoner. I was hurt that, when I realized," fuck, she was doing well. She should have stopped with the apology.

 

He sat next to her, but did not touch her, “How did I hurt you? It was not my intent. Tell me so I might not do so again.”

 

“That you were not who I thought you to be,” she said softly, “that you...” she trailed off. He would become furious.

 

“That I am an ill tempered king who insists on his way in all things?”

 

“No, that..”

 

He leaned closer, reached out his hand then pulled it back, “I swear I will control my anger, I swear it.”

 

“You do not see me as an equal. You offered marriage without love, much as those other kings did, and you see me as below you. How can you love someone you don't see as an equal? You can't, not really. You don't threaten equals, you don't set your guards on them, imprison them, they don't have to ask for permission. I, I don't want a marriage like that. I would be miserable.”

 

His eyes widened in surprise, as if he had never thought of this, or for some other reason. At least he did not look furious, that was something.

 

“You have given me much to think on. Would you join me for dinner tonight?”

 

“Yes, of course, Thranduil,” she really had no choice, and at least it was out in the open now between them that this was the case.

 

He offered her his arm and led her to her quarters. At the door he paused and said, “Do you _**wish**_ to join me for dinner?”

 

“I don't know.”

 

He gazed gravely at her then said, “It is your choice. I would welcome your company but you may dine where you wish or have food sent to your room. When would you like to leave for Mirael's?”

 

“At noon? It is warmer then.”

 

“Very well. I will meet you at the stables at noon,” he turned to leave.

 

“Where will you dine?” 

 

“In the informal dining room where we dined previously, at the usual hour.”

 

“Thranduil, I, I really am sorry I insulted you in front of your guards, I, I would not have spoken to my cousin like that, I...”

 

 

His eyes were intent on her, “Regardless of provocation, I should not have behaved thus with you. I regret my actions deeply. I hope to prove it so over time.”

 

What could she say to that? Before she could answer, he bowed slightly and took his leave.

 


	14. Confrontations

Thranduil sat at dinner alone and far more intoxicated than he would have allowed himself to be if she had joined him. He had moved from regret to anger at her rejection, and her ridiculously narrow definition of love. She was not his equal, he was her king and far superior in both experience and wisdom. He could not pretend to be otherwise. What had she anticipated would occur when she offered such public insult to him? That he would smile and bow to her?

 

Yes, he should not have sent her to the dungeons, but she had challenged him in front of his people and then told him she would prefer the dungeons to his company. What should he have done in the face of such public insolence, such prideful foolish stubbornness? Who would speak to their host in such a manner let alone a lover? He had been hurt by her words, and by her leaving him. Had wanted to hurt her back. And he had, certainly, but it led to her injury, nearly her death. Now she rejected him, rejected marriage with him on the grounds he did not consider her an equal, that he did not speak to her of love because he could not love her.

 

Love could only be between equals? Such naive stupidity. Beren was far below Luthien, Thingol far below Melian, and yet who would doubt the love they had for each other? He eyed her uneaten food, her empty seat, and drank his cup dry then motioned to the servant to fill it again. Why had fate linked him to such a foolish difficult creature, one that seemed to have such a lack of sense?

 

But of course both likely treated their beloved with more care than he treated his, that also was true. Luthien fled Beren at first, and Beren did not respond by insulting her. The courtship of Melian and Thingol was lost to time, but he doubted it included imprisonment. But had either faced a creature so maddening, so _**rude**_ , so strange, so different? Likely not—her world was utterly different from his, her ideas and behavior equally so, _**offensively**_ so. They had little in common but the bond of elvish blood, and hers was likely Noldor at that. Why was she the only one he longed for? Was it simply her magic?

 

He had declared his interest and intention, that he was courting her, to all when he moved her to the royal quarters. The action was done for honor, to honor her, and nearly the first thing she requested was to leave to Mirael's. He could count on two hands the number of those not of the line of Oropher graced with the honor of residing in the royal quarters and she could not wait to leave them. Thranduil lifted his cup to his lips and emptied it again. She did not want him, all of him, that was abundantly clear. Fate had seen fit to send him the opposite of his first wife—a female who desired his flesh but with no desire to be his queen.

 

He had hardly treated her as a future queen though. Inconsistently pursuing her, first insulting then wooing, and finally his temper. Perhaps she thought that he would rule over her cruelly, deny her freedom, that he was motivated solely by lust and a desire for her power. He sighed and drained his cup again. She had some reason to believe so, he suspected—his actions had hardly been consistent. The servant refilled his cup again, and he drank deeply. Tomorrow he would escort her to Mirael's. Already he had assigned a squadron of guards uninterested in females to her. She would dance, he felt certain of it, and he would ensure her safety. The guards were instructed to be discreet, stay hidden if possible, but to keep her safe from her own foolishness. His woods were perilous even to those born to them, but she planned to leave his halls alone in the middle of the night as if she strolled through the midst of Imladris? Utter ignorant foolishness.

 

He looked up as another servant approached, “Yes?”

 

“The Lady Zaile approaches.”

 

“Fetch fresh food for the Lady Zaile. And more wine.”

 

The servant bowed and left to relay his orders.

 

* * *

 

Upon returning to her quarters, Zaile asked Lileal to undress her and then she went to bed. Kindly, Lileal asked her no questions. She wouldn't know how to answer them even if she wanted to talk, which she didn't. Exhausted, she was exhausted after their discussion and would sleep on it, allow her mind to sort out some of it as she slept. And if she slept through dinner, then that would be that.

 

When she awoke, dinner had just begun. Could she join him late? Should she? She would bath and see how she felt, but be quick about it. She arose and it was just her, no attendant. Well, she was able to bathe and dress herself, certainly. Her hair was still clean, so that would speed things up a great deal. Quickly she bathed, then pushing aside the hideous dresses she selected one of forest green velvet. It was modest, but not ugly or unflattering, and most important of all required no assistance in putting it on.

 

 _ **But that is true of all the ugly ones too**_ , her conscience insisted. So, she wanted to look nice, where was the harm in that? It was polite, respectful, and she was already late. Though there was food in her antechamber--she could smell it--company would be good, even his company after such a long sleep. Plus, better to not provoke him by choosing to skip dinner. Her only intention was peace between them. That was it.

 

She dressed quickly, donned the pin he gave her for her hair, and then throwing on a matching robe figured in silver stepped out into the hall and made her way to the informal dining room. Outside the dining room, guards stood at attention. Badhor was among them. Nope, Zaile out. She clearly missed the window for dinner. As she moved to withdraw, he called to her, “Lady Zaile.”

 

Her heart pounded, this had been a mistake and she turned to run.

 

“I beg of you, please. I would speak with you, my lady. _**Please**_.”

 

She turned back but held out her hand, “From there, that's close enough.”

 

Badhor halted, looked uncomfortable, then bowed and said, “As you wish, my lady. I am glad to see you well, and the king anticipates you for dinner. If you were to leave because...”

 

“Because I thought you and your buddies would point spears at me? Force me before the king? Throw me in jail for wanting to leave?” She edged away slightly, prepared to run. Stupid—where would she go? She sighed and stood tall, squaring her shoulders and facing him. Spade moved in front of her and hissed and growled at Badhor.

 

Badhor flushed red and his fellow guards looked equally uncomfortable, “A servant saw your arrival—you have been announced and the king anticipates your presence.”

 

Fuck. So she was obligated then? Were these assholes going to drag her to dinner now? “So are you telling me I now _**must**_ join him for dinner? Are you going to _**force**_ me to dinner at spear point? I gotta say, compared to home this place certainly has a strange approach to honored guests, assuming that's what I actually am and not just a prisoner in the _**nicest**_ of cages.”

 

“No, _**no**_ , that is not at _**all**_ what I mean to say,” he and the rest of the guards now looked alarmed, as if this was going even worse than they anticipated, “No, merely we do not wish our presence to dissuade you from joining the king. You are no prisoner.”

 

That was _**bullshit**_. “Really? Not a prisoner? So, I can go back to my quarters this time then?”

 

Badhor looked down, “Lady Zaile, I regret...”

 

“You regret that I was hurt but I shouldn't have offered such insult to the king, that about sums it up, right? Or you regret that I actually _**can't**_ go back to my quarters despite being _**not**_ a prisoner?” She paused, and then added before he could reply, “One of the fundamental freedoms of my people is speech. The idea that there is anything that I could say to anyone, short of a threat to their life, that justifies taking away my freedom is total _**bullshit**_. Your king could have asked me to leave his kingdom, that would be a just response to insult, but incarcerating me is _**not.**_ You're _**wrong.”**_

 

Absolute astonishment, then he bowed and said calmly, “I genuinely regret that my actions led to your injury. I should have allowed you to return to your quarters that night as you requested, nay escorted you to them. It is to my shame that I did not, that you now have just cause to fear. You may return to your quarters now if you so choose, though the king will inquire as to your absence and be displeased with _**us,**_ not you.” He then returned to his station, seemed both dismayed and saddened.

 

She was so angry she was shaking. Fear. Fear made her angry. She hated feeling afraid. Fuck. Might as well go in, that was probably the thing that would be least likely to result in disaster. She walked toward Badhor and the guards all stepped aside and came to attention as she passed. That was new and weird. Badhor was closest to the door and opened it for her. As he bowed to her he whispered, “Thank you, my lady.”

 

When she saw Thranduil's face, well, she could see exactly why Badhor thanked her for not leaving—she would not wish to be the object of his displeasure either, not in this mood. He lazily observed her as he sat sprawled out in his chair, his deep blue eyes glittering in the candlelight. Dangerous, he looked utterly beautiful and chillingly dangerous. Shit. There was definitely no way for her to leave now without another ugly confrontation. A shiver rippled across her skin despite the warmth in the room.

 

“Please, sit, eat, I am glad of your company.” His voice was soft, seductive, a lure to the unwary. And he was beautifully dressed in a robe of deep blue to match his eyes, sweet Hecate he was as alluring as he was terrifying.

 

He indicated the chair opposite to him and she saw that a fresh dinner had been set out for her, fish in some sort of red sauce—it smelled utterly delicious. The servant pulled out her chair, and she sat, began to eat. At least they were not alone. She sipped her wine and watched as he drained his and indicated languidly for the servant to refill his cup. He was quiet, seemed content with watching her, though there was a heat to his gaze that made her question if she should have worn this dress after all.

 

He drank really quite a lot during her meal, but didn't seem exactly drunk. Still, some tension in the air, some sense of danger, said he likely _**was.**_ But he'd done nothing but watch her as she ate, and continued watching her as she ate seconds as well. Silent and watching, it was unnerving.

 

After she finished eating, the servant brought coffee for her--that was quite sweet of him to remember her preference for it with dessert. But then Thranduil said to the servant, “Leave us.”

 

She continued sipping her coffee, ate her pie, but her nervousness increased. Finished quickly, but not _**too**_ quickly, stood and said, “Thranduil, I,”

 

“Come, sit next to me,” he stood and sauntered over to a settee that faced the fire, propped his leather booted feet on a stool.

 

That was a bad idea, “I think I...”

 

He smiled and indicated the open seat, “Please.”

 

Stupid, but she found herself walking toward him as if drawn by some irresistible force. That _**please**_. Too much wine. Or some innate desire toward self-destruction maybe. The fire turned his hair and skin golden and he looked wild and beautiful, and utterly sexy. He was dangerous, unpredictable, and she lacked the ability to leave even though she knew she should, that he could and would hurt her. He had before. Her heart hammered, and she felt excited and nauseated at the same time. Maybe he meant his apology, maybe she was wrong about him. He did say _**please**_.

 

He watched her approach with a half smirk on his face, raised his hand as she sat, “You join me willingly, say it.” He paused and added, “Please.” Somehow that _**please**_ softened what was almost certainly an order.

 

“Yes, I join you willingly,” some frisson of magic shivered through her as if this was more than simply sitting on the couch together.

 

“I would _**not**_ have you here but by your own choice.”

 

Maybe he meant that. He sounded as if he did.

 

“I want to be here,” she felt compelled to be here was more accurate, by desire and fear both.

 

“I am glad,” his voice sounded pleased, even grateful. Some tension seemed to drain out of him and she felt herself relax a little.

 

They sat together in companionable silence until he reached out and undid her hair, began to card his fingers through it with careful gentleness, his expression tender. After a moment, she leaned upon his chest and drew her legs up onto the settee.

 

“Is this alright?” He felt warm, and smelled good. Maybe they would be alright.

 

“Very much so.” He set his wine down and wrapped an arm around her. She covered it with her own and threaded her fingers through his. After a moment, he sighed and she felt him relax.

 

She sat watching the fire for some time, listening to his heart beat, enjoying the feel of him stroking her hair. Had she not slept all day, she would have likely fallen asleep. But as it was his touch both calmed her and made her want _**more.**_

 

That was a bad idea, for so many reasons. Better to go back to her rooms. She sat up and turned to him, meant to leave him, but saw him by the firelight, his golden hair shining, and could not.

 

His hand was on her shoulder, his thumb idly stroking the soft skin of her neck. The firelight played over his face and his eyes glittered beautifully, dangerously, his face unreadable. She felt caught in his gaze, as a deer faced by a hunter, yet he did not move to catch her, merely watched her. After a moment he raised his other hand and continued to stroke her hair, carefully, so very gently, as if he were afraid to frighten her away. His own hair shone in the light and she longed to touch it, as she longed to touch him. Desire pooled low in her and she knew she should leave but could not.

 

She leaned in closer to him, removed the circlet from his head and laid it aside.

 

“You remove my crown. Would you have me be no king?” His voice was raw with some emotion she felt sure she would not understand.

 

“I just want to stroke your hair. I meant no offense.”

 

He took her hand and brought it to his hair, “I am not offended, but my question remains.”

 

His hair was so soft, his eyes so beautiful, she felt mesmerized, bewitched by him, pulled to him. The wine had gone to her head, and she knew she was too drunk to have any sort of serious conversation. Deflect then. “Could you stop being king?”

 

“I could. I have a son. But again you have not answered my question.”

 

“I don't think you could be anything else.”

 

“Perhaps, but you _**still**_ have not answered my question. Would you _**prefer**_ me to be no king?”

 

Zaile looked at him and thought. She knew a few kings. Some were good people and good rulers, but many were selfish and insisted on having their own way regardless of the effect on their people. They didn't seem that different from non-kings, just that the power of being king increased the damage the selfish could do. She didn't really care about him being king one way or the other. Monarchy was a bullshit political system, but his people seemed happy with him and he seemed to be good at keeping them alive and thriving in a hostile land. “That's your choice. I don't care if you are king or not.”

 

He sighed, then said, “You believe I can not love you unless we are equals.”

 

Oh. So _**that**_ was what this was about. She really didn't want to talk about this with him, not right now. He looked calm, but he didn't look willing to let it go, and she wasn't sure how to explain what she meant. The problem wasn't that he was king, it was the way he saw her, how he treated her, what he expected from her as king, or maybe it was that he was king. As long as she remained in his lands, he had power over her during the waning of the moon for certain, and she knew he would use it—he had before. But her cousin Maglor had that power and she was fine with him, so it wasn't that he was king. No, it was that he was willing to use his power to impose his will on her for no other reason that to win an argument. Plus, he'd grabbed her arm with such force it had hurt. Not a lot, but it would certainly have bruised. That was a bad sign too. She'd never seen Maglor behave like that with his valkyrie wife, Gondul, and they occasionally had arguments that sometimes escalated into full on verbal battles. She'd never seen, or heard, of him setting the guards on her or attempting to restrict her freedom in any way. And the guards would likely not listen anyway—she was their queen and his equal. But then Maglor always treated her thus. It might be different if he had begun by making it clear that she was beneath him. Like Gondul would have put up with that.

 

“Such seriousness. Share with me your thoughts.” There was a light teasing to his tone, as if he mocked her.

 

“I'm not sure how to explain it to you.”

 

He kept stroking her hair rhythmically, relaxing, soothing her, “Hmmm. Perhaps you can not explain it because it has no basis in logic or experience?”

 

Yeah, no, that wasn't the problem _**at all**_. His attitude was also annoyingly condescending. She sat back and moved to the other side of the settee, glared at him then caught herself and smoothed her face into a careful blandness, “Thank you for you hospitality, Thranduil, but I should like to return to my quarters now. May I have your leave?” She hated asking him his leave, _ **hated**_ it. But she added just a hint of sarcasm to make it more palatable.

 

Anger flashed though his eyes, then he said, “You need not ask my leave.”

 

There were a lot of things she thought to say. How the fuck do you expect me to know all the rules of your realm? Isn't it fucking obvious why I'd have issues with not being treated as an equal? Don't you get how fucking scary you are to me now? But what she said was, “Thank you for dinner.” then stood and began to walk to the door.

 

“I will escort you back to your rooms,” he paused then added more gently, “if you wish me to do so.”

 

“Thank you, but it is very safe in the halls with the _**multitude**_ of guards. I have learned my way as well. But I thank you for your kind offer.”

 

“Please, stay, I have offended you though I am unsure how. Stay and speak with me as you did before—honestly and as a friend.”

 

She was suddenly so angry, so furiously angry with him. How dare he ask that of her, how dare he demand one moment her obedience as a servant and next her as a lover and then she is to be his friend and speak to him with honesty? “I _**can't.**_ ” She kept her back turned, then remembered the insult of it and turned to him and hid her face with her hair.

 

“Can't?” he sounded puzzled. How dense was he?

 

“Please, just let me leave.”

 

“You continue to believe you can not speak to me honestly?” He sounded incredulous. What the fuck? How did he not get it?

 

“I _**can't**_ explain it to you.” Not without making you furious and possibly getting hurt, or having to kill, or ending up in the dungeons or worse. She was at the door and opened it, “Good night, my king.”

 

She stepped through and ran past the guards, just wanted to go back to her quarters.

 

“Zaile!” He yelled for her, and she halted, turned to face him. Trapped.

 

He paced towards her, clearly furious and she was just fucking _**done**_. Fuck it, just _**fuck**_ it. Fuck _**him.**_ Glancing at Spade she cast battle magic and Spade leapt off her shoulder and grew to her full size, roaring. A shield rose around her—must be the necklace, that thing was awesome--and she prepared to defend herself from him. She was no fucking servant, no one's toy, no slave to order around and treat like fucking property. She might be trapped in this realm a while, but she was going to set some fucking _**limits**_.

 

“Back the _**fuck**_ off. I'm done with this _**bullshit**_ , done with you treating me like I'm a fucking _**servant**_ then talking to me about _**marriage**_ then throwing me in the _**dungeons**_ , then telling me to speak honestly to you like a _**friend**_? How the fuck am I supposed to do that? So, you apologize and are nice to me for a _**day**_ and I'm just supposed to act like it never happened, like I didn't nearly die, like I'm not trapped in this awful place? Are you fucking _**serious**_? _**Look**_ at you. I can't be honest with you. You're going to make them,” here she indicated the stunned guards, “take me to the dungeons right now.” She cast two twin flame swords, “Not this time, not without a fucking fight. I can't escape you so I'll fight. I know I'll lose, but I'm still going to _**fight**_.” She stood panting with fury, tears in her eyes from sheer anger. Spade lashed her tail and roared in defiance.

 

He simply stood and looked at her, said nothing, took no action. After a few minutes, Spade sat. After a few more minutes she undid the cast for the swords. Still, he said nothing. The guards made no move towards her, had not even drawn their weapons. Their faces looked, there were varied expressions. Badhor appeared saddened and even...guilty? Two of the guards at first looked shocked but now had schooled their faces into neutrality. The third seemed disgusted, but not at her. She cast looks at Thranduil from behind his back that began with shock, then pity towards herself, and finally thinly veiled disgust at Thranduil. She seemed to be trying to school her features and failing.

 

His expression began with angry frustration, he visibly held himself back from stalking after her. There was no fear in his face, and in fact he seemed to assess and dismiss her as a combatant before he caught himself and stopped. It wasn't fear holding him back though, not at all. He looked at her with a deep sadness and sorrow. There was guilt there too, and compassion. He opened his mouth as if to speak, then closed it and seemed to come to some sort of decision. She braced for battle again, and saw hurt flash across his face, and sorrow, such sorrow.

 

And then he simply bowed to her and left. It felt very much like a goodbye and left her feeling saddened, drained, and surprised. She looked to the guards. They bowed and followed their king. Oh. Well. That was not what she expected at all.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil returned to his quarters and sprawled in his favorite chair. He drank, he drank some more, he was well and truly drunk, and he attempted to forget her expression, so desperate and afraid. He had given her that expression and now it seemed he could not amend his gift.

 

The Valar, or fate, gave him another chance in her and in his pride and darkness he had probably ruined it. He knew not what to say to her, knew only that he would now follow the healer's advice and not press her.

 

He had already pressed her this night, disastrously pushed her to answer him when he should have been glad to hold her by the fire. She came to him, ate with him, joined him willingly, and then he could not keep himself from speaking to her, no, _**questioning**_ her. The healer warned him, told him she feared him, told him she would not be honest, could not be honest because of this fear. He thought perhaps she listened to him at lunch, considered his words and believed him, that she came to dinner willingly because she judged him to have repented his actions and would not repeat them. That she felt safe again.

 

So exquisitely beautiful, he'd ached to kiss her, to take her in his arms and do far more than kiss her. When she'd leaned in and removed his crown, her full lips inches from his, he'd thought to reach out, pull her to him, taste her sweet mouth. Then thought better of it—what right had he to her lips so soon after mistreating her? Instead he tried to help her examine her prejudice against him as a king, and her foolish idea that he could not love her because of it.

 

He was the fool. She feared him intensely, thought herself a prisoner, thought he would set his guards on her if she displeased him. Honesty, honest conversation, was impossible until she learned not to fear him again. The healer was correct. Words would not solve this, only actions. He would need to prove himself to her repeatedly over time, show her he cared for her as opposed to attempting to convince her logically. Perhaps then he might win her. She still desired him, was fascinated by him, so much so that despite her fear she chose to dine with him, stroked his hair, enjoyed his touch—there was a connection between them and she felt it as strongly as him. He could use that. All was not yet lost.

 

“My lord, Badhor would speak with you.”

 

The young fool who originally sparked this conflagration. Why not? He waved laconically to his attendant. Badhor entered and Thranduil eyed him coldly.

 

“My lord, the lady Zaile said something to me before entering you may find of interest. She spoke of her people's love for freedom. They believe that one should be free to say anything to anyone and not fear retaliation or punishment other than banishment or perhaps being shunned. Threats to another's life are prohibited. It seems in their realm that one may speak to even the king as an equal. The king will respond with banishment if sorely offended, but not imprisonment. I confess I do not fully understand her meaning. She spoke of being imprisoned as if it was far worse than banishment, perhaps the worst thing one could do to another, perhaps worse than death.” Badhor looked deeply disturbed.

 

“To be detained is worse that banishment, are you certain of this?”

 

“Yes, my lord. She said if you were offended with her you should have banished her. That it was wrong to take her freedom away. And now she sees these halls not as a place of safety but as a prison. She sees the guards as her wardens and refers to the halls as a beautiful cage. She does not understand the dangers in our land and that we act to keep our people safe.”

 

Thranduil considered. How odd. Among his people banishment was possibly worse than death. The dungeons served to separate those who fought so their blood might cool and they might be reasoned with as thoughtful beings. It was a place for reflection for those who transgressed their laws and customs. Occasionally, it held those travelers that posed a potential threat until a decision could be made as to their fate. Very often the dungeon were simply empty. They did not mistreat those they held, it was clean, all were provided bedding and allowed time in the sun outside, food, medical treatment. They were not men, not Sauron or his minions. And she had called him her jailer, had proudly lifted her head and gone to the dungeons after announcing she preferred them to him--she hardly seemed afraid of them or of him.

 

But the being showed him her desperate fear, fear of him and fear of being trapped. She nearly died trying to escape the dungeons. Why would she feign no fear? And why did she insult and defy him if she were terrified? Her behavior made little rational sense.

 

“Why did she tell you these things?”

 

“When she arrived for dinner, she saw me and turned as if to flee. I called after her and she stopped but bade me keep my distance. I attempted to explain, to apologize, but she moved from fear to fury and then began to assume the worst, that I would force her before you.” Badhor flushed, said, “Had I known she was no longer an outsider, I would have behaved differently that night. I sought only to keep my realm and her safe. Had she left in the middle of the night, been taken by spiders or orcs, I would have grieved her loss. And had she some dark motive and injured the realm, my lord, I did what I could do to see all safe.”

 

“So, first fear then rage and attack?”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“How did you convince her to join me?”

 

“I listened to her and continued to explain my regret, my sorrow at her mistreatment by myself. I kept my distance from her as she asked. I told I should have escorted her back to her quarters that night. When she said she was a prisoner, I told her it was not so. I did not argue with her, I tried to convey my regret, my sadness. I am not sure how I convinced her, but I tried to show myself no threat to her.” Badhor thought for a moment, “She seemed to calm once she attacked me and I did not retaliate. I think the things she says are what she fears, and she seeks to test them, to face them. I would that her fears were baseless, but they are not.”

 

“But as you took no action and listened to her, she calmed?”

 

“Yes, my lord, and seemed able to hear me though she trusted me little.”

 

As a battle plan, it had merit. Draw the enemy out, see their intentions, show no weakness. Thranduil considered Badhor. He was committed to another ellon, had never evinced any attraction to any female. He could use Badhor to test her responses before he attempted to make peace with her himself. The ellon could report back on what worked, and what did not, as he guarded her. He would assign Tauriel to her as well, they seemed to have a bond and Tauriel would speak honestly with him. If Zaile could learn to trust and forgive Badhor, perhaps she would be able to extend that to him as well. Tauriel would take it upon herself to explain, and perhaps that would help as well.

 

“Badhor, I would assign you as a personal guard to the Lady Zaile along with Tauriel.”

 

“My lord, she would perceive me as a threat to her, a prison guard of her, not a...”

 

“That is for you to solve. Tauriel can assist you. Be prepared to leave on the morrow with us. You will report what you learn to me daily.”

 

“Yes, my lord,” Badhor sounded dismayed.

 

“If she dismisses you, simply withdraw and have another take your place. But on the morrow return. I would see her learn to trust you again, to trust all of us. That is not possible unless she sees you. Fetch Tauriel, I would speak with her also.”

 

Badhor looked doubtful, but bowed and left to do his bidding.

 

After a time, Tauriel attended him.

 

“Tauriel, greetings, how went the trade negotiations?”

 

“To our advantage. I am finished and will remain here until the spring thaw. I thought to rejoin the guard for the next few months.”

 

“I would have you serve as guard and companion to the Lady Zaile for the next two weeks, possibly longer. Help her to understand our ways and learn what you can concerning hers. Badhor will accompany you. There is a contingent of guards commanded to keep the Lady Zaile safe but remain concealed from her, if possible. You will be the captain of that contingent and may request reinforcements of me if you deem necessary.”

 

Tauriel nodded, “I am glad she has awakened.”

 

“Yes. I would see her well. She is to be at Mirael's for the next two weeks, but may return to the halls as she will. I ask only that you keep her safe and teach her the many dangers of our woods. She does not realize the danger that surrounds her.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

“I am quite fond of her, Tauriel. I entrust her to your care.”

 

Tauriel's eyes widened at his admission, surprised at it, or that he was capable of it perhaps—she did once accuse him of being incapable of love. Then she nodded and with a wave he dismissed her.

 


	15. To Mirael's

Zaile tossed and turned most of the night. Despite the fact she knew that _**she**_ was the wounded party, the one who'd been _**imprisoned**_ and that she had every right to be furious with him and his merry band of prison guards she still felt a bit sorry for him. She'd expected a fight, expected that he'd revert to form and try to force her. But he'd been frustrated and then just really really sad. Guilty too. Maybe a little hopeless even. He'd had the power to subdue her, or at least he thought he did—that was obvious in the way he assessed and dismissed her as a threat. But he'd just walked away, he and his guards. Mind blown.

 

Fuck him, she owed him nothing. He had been _**such**_ an asshole to her. So why did she feel, what, sorry for him? Sad for him?

 

Zaile the Soft-Hearted. She was an idiot. He was hardly pitiable. Except he kinda was. That plea to speak honestly to him as a friend, oh, it had made her so angry, that and his condescension. The condescension was still bullshit but asking her to be his friend again...she wondered if he was lonely. Then she tossed and told herself not to care, that it wasn't her problem--if he was lonely it was because he was kinda a dick to everyone apparently.

 

Except Tauriel had said he wasn't always this way, had hinted at some great tragedy that changed him. His people obviously loved him and respected him, so it made sense they would cut him some slack for being a jerk if he'd suffered some terrible loss. She flipped over again and Spade hissed at her for disturbing her sleep again as well. The problem was that he wasn't only a jerk. He was intelligent, curious, fascinating, beautiful, wise, and above all complex, complicated, _**interesting**_ in a way few people were and she liked him.

 

That was the problem too. She liked him very much and was drawn to him, even now wanted to be with him. But realistically he was bad for her, had hurt her. He did seem sorry, but she knew how that cycle could go with an endless round of injuries and apologies—no thanks. Still, she'd expected another explosion when he didn't get his way and he'd simply accepted and withdrawn. He was unpredictable, at least to her. Maybe after she was here longer he would make more sense to her. She'd take her break and Mirael's to clear her mind. It wasn't as if she had to make some decision tonight; she was stuck in his kingdom for 11 more months and the realm who knows how long. She had time, and time would clarify things.

 

Having come to some kind of peace she finally settled in and went to sleep, Spade purring contentedly next to her. She'd figure it out.

Zaile woke late in the morning feeling surprisingly refreshed. At first, she thought she was home with her parents or her grandmother in Harthad but after a moment she realized that she was still in Thranduil's kingdom. How long would it be before she could go home? A wave of homesickness washed over her and she trudged to the bath. She often portaled home for a meal or a chat, at least once a week unless she was in the field and deeply engrossed in a project. It had been a few weeks since she went home before she came to Thranduil's realm and now it was nearly two months. She missed them and they were almost certainly worried about her and probably had started trying to track her down.

 

If only she'd thought to alert anyone about her trip to the warlock's. She could only hope somebody found her but pocket realms like these were notoriously hard to find without somewhere to begin. She'd get out of here eventually, find a way to break the spell, grow powerful enough to snap it, or the warlock would die, or her family would track her down. First would be to study the books she photographed. And perhaps she could combine that with the information she was learning in the library. She'd begun an intriguing volume on elven magic before her injury, and the librarian Celebrimdal had a stack of related volumes ready for her.

 

Apparently elven magic generally grew and developed with age, maybe as a biological process. Likely all of the abilities she had read about were out of her reach, but it would be useful to know the likely abilities of Thranduil and his people. Most were probably no match for her magically even at the slimmest sliver of the moon, but Thranduil was very old and a king. Elves tended to select the strongest and wisest among themselves to rule, and despite their reputation for logic and calm some of them were not at all above plotting for power. Thranduil had ruled this land for thousands of years, which meant he was smart, powerful, and ruthless. After that long in one place his magic would be linked to the land allowing him to draw power from the land itself.

 

He would definitely be a boss fight. Not a good choice to fight him, not at all. Hopefully he would not push her to it. After last night it seemed he didn't plan to. In fact he seemed disappointed and saddened that she thought he would. It was like he considered locking her in the dungeon to be no big deal, or was just so used to doing what he wanted and having everyone else smile and go along that he expected her to do the same. It just made zero sense to her, this seeming surprise that she was still afraid and angry. Her fey formed and held grudges literally forever. They were not a terribly forgiving people and had a very long memory. It wasn't that they sought revenge, at least not always, but they never forgot bad behavior—you hurt them, they filed it away and that became part of how they saw you _**always.**_ The witches were far more forgiving, or maybe they just expected others to behave badly and fuck up as much as they did. Her fey were far more likely to help and be altruistic, they were good people, but they never forgot a slight. The witches generally didn't do any favors for free, but they would forgive once they evened the score.

 

These fey seemed to expect her to forgive them just because they said a few words, or they didn't see being jailed in the same way as her. Weird. A break at Mireal's and time to think and study would be good. She stepped out of the bath, dried off, donned her robe and walked out to see in Lileal was here to help her dress. Her pack was already full so that part was done, though she'd add in whatever clothes Lileal thought she'd need for Mirael's since she wasn't going home.

 

Lileal smiled, though it did not reach her eyes, and said, “Good morning, Zaile, I hope you slept well though I fear you did not.”

 

“I'm ok. I'm looking forward to a couple of hopefully peaceful weeks at Mirael's.”

 

At that the smile became more genuinely happy, “I know Mirael; she is both kind and wise. You will fare well with her.” Then she paused, “If you would have me accompany you, I would be happy to do so. The king has appointed you guards but you have the right to an attendant as well if you wish.”

 

“Do you want to go?”

 

Lileal smiled brightly, “Yes, very much! I have rarely left these caves in recent times.”

 

After that, Lileal pulled out a riding habit in a truly startling shade of yellow. It was well made but deeply unflattering.

 

“I think I'd prefer to just wear something simple and plain, something similar to what the rangers wear if you have anything like that. I don't want to make my decisions based on what he'd like or dislike, but rather what I prefer.”

 

Lileal considered, nodded, then removed a simple blue riding tunic and dark blue leather pants. It was finished with gray leather boots and a soft pale gray hooded cape. Certainly nicer than what the rangers wore, but simpler than much of what she had worn before. She dressed and Lileal braided her hair back into a simple style suitable for riding and fixed it with a plain silver clip in the form of a leaf. After, she selected a few things for Zaile to take. As Zaile packed them in her pack, Lileal watched and marveled that the pack just took each item and self organized, never growing larger. Lileal had apparently planned on accompanying her for she had her own pack ready and together they headed down to the stables. It was better to have a companion she trusted at least a little, her one friend in this strange realm.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil woke out of sorts and the day declined from there. On the western side of his kingdom, a troop of orcs had boldly crossed the Old Forest Road into his kingdom and attempted to trouble a village nigh unto it. Luckily, his rangers were visiting the village as they made their rounds and cut them down with no loss of life. Had they been but a little late the outcome would have been far different. All his subjects trained and had skill at arms, but the rangers specialized in war. The village had sufficient numbers to repel the invaders, but the loss of life would have been great. He thought to ask Zaile if she might dance there, then recalled her diminished state and of course his role in it.

 

His population was robust, and he had more than enough rangers to hold his land, but he would discuss with his captains recruiting more and the proper distribution of them in these increasingly perilous times. Tempted, very tempted was he to move the villages that much closer to the halls but soon there would be nowhere to retreat. Once they had roamed the entire Greenwood in peace and now they held less that half in relative safety. They must hold, though each death grieved him greatly.

 

The cursed spiders were the second problem. The benefits of Zaile's cleansing held strong so far, but she had cleansed nothing between here and Mirael's. Once at Mirael's, she would be safe from them. The virtue she sent into the ground there and the area she danced kept it free of them. But multiple reports of spiders had come in and around the section of forest the traveled today and yet his rangers had not found the troop. He little liked the idea of taking Zaile anywhere with orcs on the move and a troop of spiders lurking in the area, but he doubted she would perceive his actions as being for her safety should he refuse to take her.

 

It would be best if she were gone for time as well given the wildfire spread of rumors regarding both her and him. Her outburst in the hall ignited a firestorm of controversy among his councilors, the gossip spreading swiftly if somewhat inaccurately through his halls: He was forcing her to marriage as Eol of old forced Aredhel. She had bewitched him and then cruelly rejected him, laughing at his heartbreak. He was in love with her but she loved another, refused him for this lost love. They were soon to be married and argued in the tempestuous beginning of new love. She was an impostor and an adventurer seeking to become queen. He desired her only for her power and wealth, thought to protect his kingdom and grow in power though he cared nothing for her, sought only to use her. 

 

He was not in a good mood and would not countenance discussion of what he viewed as a private matter between them. It had not pleased his counselors, and it was no doubt not wise of him, but he was king. On the morrow he would call a council and hear them out, but for today he would not hear them. Let him take her to Mirael's and then he could listen to his councilors discussion of the political benefits and disadvantages of the match as well as their likely well meant but probably useless advice.

 

Yes, he would increase the number of the guards accompanying them but take her today he must. He did not wish to, in fact he wished to bring her to his chambers and keep her there with him until she became more reasonable, saw his care for her. But of course that would only make it worse. He must let her come back to him, if she willed. He called his aide to him and ordered the number of guards doubled and arrayed for war then strode back to his chambers. He would wear the plate today in case there were more than spiders about. Mirael's was closer to the edge of his lands than he liked.

 

He dressed then headed to the stables after directing his majordomo to ensure that a full range of foodstuffs were brought to Mirael as well as any other items that might be needed. His household was efficient and would ensure the comfort of Zaile and his people for her time there. Through the halls, he could feel and see the effects of the rumors spreading. Some concern, some pity, some chagrin, some jealousy, and a great deal of curiosity. Oh, this would set the wheels of politics grinding as they had not ground in a century. Though all knew he was free to remarry, after he evinced no interest in doing so for a century that particular plotting halted. Now it would begin again, or some offshoot of it. Tiresome, but manageable. He remained the same and did not deign to notice any difference.

 

Out into the stable and he was pleased to see his guards properly prepared and waiting, the cart full of supplies ready, all as it should be. After a few moments, Zaile and her attendant Lileal emerged and his breath caught in his throat as it always did at the sight of her. Today she wore blue and a simple gray cape, hardly clothes suited to her rank but acceptable for this. And yet she was lovely, stars in her pale green eyes and a light to her that made all the rumors of her darkness utterly unbelievable. None who met her would, _**could**_ believe such. He loved her, he was certain of it. He would let her go, but not far, not far at all, and only to come back to him.

 

Perhaps those who compared him to Eol were not wrong, though he hoped never to find out—if he won her he need never discover if he had the capacity to let her go. He doubted very much if he did. This short parting was difficult enough, all the many things that could go wrong, her foolish certainty in her safety, her impulsiveness, his former wife's suffering at the hands of the orcs, her capture riding to Dale for a visit in an area thought to be safe and well guarded, all of this played through his mind and set his face in a grim scowl. She glared back at him, almost certainly misinterpreting the source of his discontent, then seemed to lean into Lileal for support. As if that one had the age to offer wise council, though it made sense that youth would lean to youth.

 

“Good morning, Lady Zaile. We are arrayed as you see for spiders and orcs have been spotted in our lands. Come, I have armor for you and the guards will see to your companion.”

 

Both looked surprised, and Lileal looked terrified. Good. At least she had the sense to respect the dangers of his lands and hopefully might curb Zaile's foolish impulses. She stepped toward him and said, “I can cast a ward spell. What sort of weapons? Arrows? Spears?”

 

“Yes, and swords. The orcs are as strong as an average elf but far less nimble. Their blades are also poisoned. It is not a long ride, perhaps four hours. Could you maintain your ward for that time continuously? They will offer no warning and strike first with arrows.”

 

“No, not continuously.”

 

“Then I would ask you to wear armor.”

 

She nodded, and he removed her cloak and hung it on a peg. After that, he helped her into the armor Legolas wore as a youth—a mithril chain shirt that hung down to the middle of her thighs, the sleeves near to the tips of her fingers. Once he saw her in comparison to the size of shirt, he decided to put it on over her tunic. With the tunic underneath, the fit was better though of course it was meant to be worn under the clothes. His former wife's armor would likely fit had it not been lost with her. He would have this shirt remade for Zaile. Around her thighs and calves he fitted and tied thick leather armor then tried first one then another of Legolas's old greaves but the fit was poor—she was too short and small. Steel then. Too heavy for her light frame, but she would _**not**_ be fighting merely riding. He would have her measured and have an older mithril set remade for her, perhaps have it set with emeralds to match her eyes. That would protect her and serve as payment for her magic for some time.

 

“Badhor, fetch greaves for one shorter and more slender than the wearer of this set,” Badhor took the one offered and left for the armory.

 

“Do I really need all this armor?”

 

Her voice sounded incredulous and he reined in his temper. She simply had no understanding of living hemmed in by enemies and the one battle she fought she had easily won—she did not understand loss, how a stray bolt could end the fiercest and most skilled in a moment. Certainly skill mattered, experience mattered, but he had seen the great felled by the lucky more than once. Only a fool entered war without taking all available precautions.

 

“Yes, you may. It is best to be prepared.”

 

“You're worried, aren't you?” Her voice was soft, and she placed her hand over his heart. It surprised him, this gesture, and seemed to surprise her too as she quickly moved back from him.

 

“Yes. But I will see to your safety.”

 

She sighed, then said resignedly, “I, if it would be better I can wait until it is safe.”

 

“It is _**never**_ safe.” It wasn't. His kingdom was under siege. This he offered her—an ancient war torn wood and his own foul tempered self. He wondered what those other kings offered? But then, she had felt no connection to them and she assuredly did to him. He would make it enough somehow.

 

It seemed to finally dawn on her that there might actually be dangers to her in his woods, but then she seemed to brush it off and shrugged. He hated her shrugging. And the word _**whatever**_ , at least the way she used it. Badhor returned with the greaves and he found a set that fit well enough. Finally he brushed back her hair and added a mithril mail coif to protect her neck and head.

 

“This too? Why don't you have to wear one of these things?”

 

“I am familiar with our potential foe and better able to navigate this land. I, too, wear a coif if battle is certain. I simply wish to ensure your safety,” he gestured to Lileal, “Your attendant is arrayed similarly.”

 

She looked at Lileal, who was appropriately and obviously fearful, and subsided. Perhaps seeing the fear on her companion's face convinced her or perhaps she simply decided to concede the conflict. She moved to mount the horse Badhor held for her, or at least tried. She seemed to have little experience with wearing armor.

 

“Allow me?” She nodded and he helped her to somewhat gracelessly mount. _**Definitely**_ had never mounted a horse in armor.

 

“Thank you, King Thranduil.”

 

He nodded and mounted his elk, then led them out to face the fullness of the day.

 


	16. The Ride to Mirael's

Lileal rode to her left and Thranduil to her right. The one fearful, her eyes darting as she hunched in her borrowed armor, and the other proudly confident if grim. Around them rode twenty guards, Tauriel in the front, Badhor in the back behind a cart filled with supplies. The guards were keenly alert and poised for action, all in full plate armor. No one made conversation and the wood itself was quiet. Not silent, she heard the occasional bird or some small animal, but quiet compared to the halls certainly. It would be restful if everyone were not so clearly expecting an attack of some sort.

 

Periodically, Zaile closed her eyes and extended her senses. She was still far from full power, declining more with each day into the waning of the moon, but she was restored enough to do this simple sort of magic. Some weariness, a hint of darkness that grew the further she felt past Thranduil's halls, but no patches of pure darkness like she had felt from the spiders on the night she danced to repel them. It felt much as it always had in her few times in the forest—old, weary, and a bit tainted with darkness.

 

And so they rode through the wood on a gray overcast day, the clouds almost charcoal in color and what little light penetrated weak and almost sickly. No snow, but the storm hung there waiting, like it was holding it's breath. Thranduil frowned whenever he looked up at the sky and seemed disturbed by the weather. She thought to ask him, then decided that he would likely not want his watchful concentration broken.

 

After a while, she fell into a sort of open eyed meditation, her senses passively aware of what was around her. The range was not as good as when she was actively looking for threats, but it required less magic and would give her sufficient warning for any non-magical threat and many magical ones. Spade also perceived no threats and relaxed in her hood, purring periodically. They rode in silence, Thranduil glancing over occasionally his expression watchful and grim, then softening when he gazed at her. He looked every inch a king in his armor, his elk majestic and powerful under him. As always, she felt a stab of desire and fear when she looked at him, so beautifully lethal. She looked away and saw sorrow flicker across his face as she did. Guilt and pity bloomed in her, then anger—she had no reason to be guilty. The sooner they got to Mirael's the better.

 

They rode through the day for hours. Nothing. No spiders, no other threats-- those orcs he'd mentioned. The wood seemed pretty tame honestly, much as she had felt in the past, but Thranduil didn't seem the sort to overreact. Quite the opposite in fact. It was puzzling. Sure, the spiders were a huge threat to mortals. But unless an immortal was untrained or had the bad luck to face a large pack alone, they weren't that big a deal. Only the virulence of their poison made them a threat to immortals at all—any other injuries they inflicted would just regenerate instantly.

 

Well, they would be a threat to any immortal who had not yet frozen into their immortality, that was true. That could take a while for her branch of the fey depending on their ancestry—maybe even longer for these folk? Except for the old ones, most of the Ettuli were a blend of their fey and something else. She couldn't think of a single one of her own generation that was not a mix. Most common were the other varieties of fey, except the hated slavers, but Maglor and the other old ones actively encouraged them to branch out and to consider any mate of good character, strong power, and beautiful aspect.

 

Generally, her people froze into immortality around 50, with a few taking as long as a 100 or so—late for immortals, very late. They reached physical maturity slower too, appearing to be in their late teens or twenties when they finally froze. But a rare few never froze. They stopped aging, or aged very very slowly, but they continued to heal almost as slowly as mortals. Spells helped to hide the weakness and mitigate it, and once mated they could share the healing powers of their mate if the mate was willing to accept a slowing of their own healing, but they were encouraged to avoid battle if possible. Mostly, they stuck to the plane of the Ettuli and became scholars and healers.

 

The old ones, no one really knew how many of them could heal or not. All of them had multiple artifacts of magic and many left battle to the young, but generally the farther back you went the more likely this affliction supposedly became, a shameful hidden weakness of her branch of the fey. Maybe some of Thranduil's people were similarly afflicted? But surely he'd have them stay in the halls if that were the case? She glanced at him. It was incredibly insulting to ask about an Ettuli's power to heal, the inability a deep secret that one kept hidden. No, it was probably as uncommon here as in her realm. Which brought her right back to being puzzled at the level of concern. These orcs must be terrific warriors, though Thranduil and the other elves seemed to view them with disdain and disgust. Maybe they were accompanied by worse creatures? But then why not warn her of them?

 

“We are nearly there, my lady,” Lireal murmured in relief, “perhaps another thirty minutes riding time.”

 

Zaile nodded, then actively extended her senses, felt the wood again, looked for threats or information. It felt different this time, as if there were things about but somehow cloaked in some fashion. Unquiet, the wood felt as if there was a vile darkness in it that was hiding or waiting, she could not quite tell. She sensed nothing, but it was really more like the absence of something, a blank but somehow full space, as opposed to actually nothing.

 

Better to be prepared. She reached into her pack and called up her sword and strapped it on, then the knife, thought about the vest but Thranduil had emphasize how this substance called mithril resisted all but the most powerful of even magical weapons. She'd certainly like to test it against magically enhanced arrows and modern bullets both ordinary and enhanced, but for this realm she'd trust his judgment—he knew far more about battle here than her. Maybe she should take out the Heckler and Koch MP7? It wouldn't kill an immortal, but since she'd carefully spelled the rounds to pierce, fragment, and disrupt the normal near instantaneous healing process of immortals until removed, it was a nasty non-lethal option. Any immortal she shot had to choose to stop and removed the multiple fragmented rounds or to take the chance of bleeding out and being rendered defenseless and unconscious.

 

It was better than her using her consistently lethal magic, and had real stopping power for a non-lethal option. As soon as she could control her magic well enough to do non-lethal magic she'd probably retire it—the Lore in general seemed to weirdly view modern weapons as poor sportsmanship, or just lame. So far she'd only practiced with it and hadn't needed to use it on people—her reputation as Deathbringer made most creatures wary of antagonizing her and she had zero interest in picking fights. But it would be good for crowd control and good against large groups of non-magical beings such as the spiders, especially given that she'd taxed her powers far past their limit pretty recently.

 

She pulled out the gun, snapped on the scope, and slung the strap over her shoulder. Pulled out the belt with extra magazines, loosened it slightly for the bulk of the clothes and closed it around her waist. Good enough. Thranduil looked very interested in what she was doing, fair to burst with curiosity, and she took pity and explained.

 

“This is a weapon of my land that is good for groups of enemies. It is like a very powerful slingshot that fires many stones very quickly.”

 

Thranduil looked distinctly unimpressed and simply nodded. It was clear he thought her weapon would likely prove useless against their foes if they showed up. He might be right, but then he might not. Frankly, she hoped to not have to find out. Battle, killing, she hated them both. But better them than her.

 

They were almost at Mirael's when the blank began to feel distinctly magical, or rather an utter absence of magic in a wood that always felt a little bit more than just a wood. It felt like the magical equivalent of something crouching down and saying, “Not here, nope, not here at all.” And it was on either side of them and seemed to be closing in.

 

“Thranduil,” she whispered and motioned to him. He rode closer and she leaned over to whisper, “Do you feel...”

 

He stopped her before she could continue and nodded grimly. Raised his hand and the group stopped and circled up with her and Lileal at the center. She prepped the gun and sequenced the spell for her shield.

 

“Smoke!” Tauriel shouted. At that moment Zaile felt the wood shudder and keen in pain, and her friend, Mirael's oak, cried out inside her, a great scream of agony.

 

“Mirael's oak is burning! It's screaming, I have to...”

 

“You will stay, Zaile,” Thranduil shouted at her and then turned as a volley of arrows rained from above and these things burst from the forest riding on giant hideous wolves. So much darkness, such a purity of evil and rot it made her teeth ache and her guts clench in nausea.

 

She cast and held an arrow ward over them all, weak but not too weak for this. Spade leapt from her hood and expanded to full battle size, moved to attack the closest of the wolves. Heard the scream of a horse as one of the wolves tore into it viciously, saw Thranduil move into battle like a graceful embodiment of Death, the elves peppered the trees with arrows and took down the archers and so she let the arrow ward lapse and cast weather magic, pulled and sought to bring rain.

 

Too cold, and she was so weak. Snow then. Enough snow would put out the fire or at least slow it down a great deal. She reached out and sought to pull down the snow that threatened and felt something, some suppression, some ill magic holding it back. Fuck that. The spell she sensed was lazy, the caster certain of no challenge. She'd shatter it into pieces and by the time the caster could reassemble it the clouds would have emptied themselves. Zaile pulled back and closed her eyes to concentrate, then punched through the spell and commanded the clouds to empty on the fire specifically. Immediately, snow began falling like a thunderstorm of snow, straight down like a column of pure white in the near distance. She felt the forest and the great oak's relief and smiled.

 

A great jolt of pain and force hit her in the side and she plummeted off her horse to the ground. Looking up, she saw her horse stepping over her and rolled out and away to avoid being trampled. A spear, someone had thrown a spear at her, she saw it. The spell on it set her teeth on edge, pure evil, the opposite of life, and she was very glad for the armor Thranduil insisted she wear. Her ribs hurt but she could feel them knitting themselves back together, she'd be fine in seconds. But she probably wouldn't have been if that spell had pierced her flesh, not as weak as she was. At a minimum she'd be useless in battle, focused on fighting that darkness off. Fuck that shit. Spade leaped and was at her back, and she shouldered the MP7 and checking the locations of her allies turned to face whoever was stupid enough to fuck with her.

 

A great wolf, it's muzzle distorted and bloody, grabbed her horse by the throat and tore it out, then turned to snarl at her. It's rider screeched and before either could attack her she shot first the wolf then the rider. Both went down easy, chain mail and flesh no match for armor piercing rounds, and both were no immortals. That part of her mind that screamed in horror at the sheer carnage and sounds she shoved aside and relied on her training. She scanned and looked for another opponent, took out another wolf, got a knot of those things coming out of the trees, switched magazines and continued to look for opportunities to kill that didn't endanger her allies.

 

Last magazine. She hadn't packed for war and hadn't planned on not being able to get more ammo if she needed. Probably wasted some too, shooting like she faced immortals as opposed to these things. She turned and surveyed the battle, looked for something to kill and saw it was mostly over, at least here. She sent out her senses and a darkness remained towards Mirael's but it seemed to be retreating. Thranduil was suddenly there above her, speaking to her but she couldn't seem to hear him. He swung down off his elk and embraced her and then she could hear again.

 

“Tauriel, lead your troop to Mireal's. Badhor, see to the wounded.”

 

He looked down at her, “How badly are you hurt? I saw that spear thrust, what were you thinking closing your eyes in a battle, little fool?”

 

“I needed to concentrate to bring the snow. The forest was screaming and I had to stop it.”

 

He ran his hands gently over her side, “How badly are you hurt? Answer me now!”

 

“What, I'm not hurt at all. I already healed it.”

 

He had a cut on his cheek, a scratch really, and to her horror it didn't disappear. She reached up to touch it and whispered, “Why aren't you healing? Is it poison? It doesn't feel like a spell.” He was obviously a skilled experienced warrior, he could not be one of the afflicted. He'd mentioned their arrows being poisoned, could that stop or slow his healing? That must be it, like with Mirael.

 

“No. It is but a scratch, there are those more hurt than I that need my healing power far more.”

 

That made no sense but she nodded like it did and looked out over the carnage. Where was Lileal? There, leaning against the cart, a couple of arrows in her gut and Badhor leaning over her. They weren't spelled. Oh, thank Hecate! Once the arrows were pulled out, she should be fine as long as they were not poisoned. Thranduil held her back briefly, his face full of sorrow, but then he let her go and followed her. She moved to Lileal's side and saw her gown soaked in blood, felt the dim flicker of life within her. Wounds such as these should not be anywhere close to fatal for an immortal, had she not frozen into her immortality? Or poison again?

 

No way she was losing her friend. “Spade, get my pack.”

 

First to hold her in life. She'd try an anchor spell, tie Lileal to the life force of the land. Might not work. It was often a dark spell, and one that used the life force of another being to fuel it. Normally, she'd use her own life force but she wasn't sure what would happen—this spell was to sustain mortals not immortals.

 

No good. She set her mouth in a grim line and cast again, this time linking Lileal to herself. Better, though exhausting. There was Spade with her pack.

 

“I need you to remove the arrows. I'm going to heal her.”

 

Thranduil nodded, knelt and taking out a knife quickly removed the fletching on each arrow and carefully pushed them through. He then held Lileal in his arms, his expression filled with sorrow. She reached into her pack and called up a couple of healing potions effective for mortals. Poured the first on Lileal and sighed with relief to see the flesh begin to knit itself back together. Not poison then, thank Hecate.

 

“Turn her over, please.”

 

Thranduil gently shifted Lileal, his face hopeful. Zaile poured the second potion over her back and sighed with relief to see it work as well. The flicker became more of a steady flame and she cut the tie between them.

 

“Have you more of those, Zaile?” Badhor had appeared at their side.

 

“I have three more.” Why the fuck was Thranduil taking his people into battle if they hadn't frozen into their immortality yet? Or if they were one of the afflicted?

 

Badhor led her to an elf with a sucking chest wound. Two potions later he would survive. She saw Thranduil knelt over another with a deep slash to his arm and heard him begin to sing, felt him extend his power to heal. They passed an elf with wide staring eyes, clutching her abdomen. She was close to death, so close, Zaile knelt and anchored her immediately, felt the cold rush of death into herself as her life force battled to maintain itself. Her necklace stirred and she felt an inrush of power and a warning. Quickly she cut away the elf's garments and then stuffing the intestines back as well as she could she poured the potion over the gaping wound and cast her fiercest healing magic, pushed back the cold and dark, pulling everything the necklace had to give.

 

Another joined her, cool power, old power, a kind if stern heart. Together they brought her back from the abyss to rest this side of the edge. Not healed, not completely, but with a chance to heal completely. She opened her eyes to look over at Badhor. He had been the other presence, and she felt she knew him better, at least she knew him to be good. He was far older than she thought. And bleeding, a cut to his hand was bleeding.

 

She looked and saw. Cuts, wounds, not one healed like an immortal. They were all afflicted. And then she understood then their grim resolve and fear.

_________________________________________________________________

 

A slingshot? Thranduil watched as her weapon chewed through a triad of orcs like they were nothing. At first he'd been terrified to see her unhorsed when she stupidly closed her eyes in the midst of a battle. Fury had raced through him, then horror as she fell. But she leapt to her feet and between her and Spade they exterminated that section of the battlefield then began to work their way methodically through incoming opponents. She had to be hurting, there was no way that spear thrust had not broken bones, ruptured organs. He saw it turn her side concave. But she moved like she was fine and was clearly more than able to protect herself. Very well. He would let her be for now.

 

Periodically he glanced over at her. Her fighting style was ugly, graceless, clumsy. Her inexperience showed. Without her weapon, and Spade to guard her back, she'd be in grave danger. It was foolish to rely so much on any weapon. Weapons broke, they failed, and he suspected given her movements she was less than skilled with that sword at her hip. He could rectify that lack and he would have her teach him about that ugly loud weapon as well.

 

Finished, this troop numbered a mere fifty or so but such boldness. It was as he feared—their Enemy grew in power and planned to extend his reach again. Testing for weakness, seeking to spread fear and hopelessness among his people, and inch by inch to take their land and lives. As it always had been since Dol Guldur welcomed the Necromancer and this long slow siege began. Or perhaps there was some additional motive? He gestured and a few of his rangers pursued the fleeing remnants. Hopefully they would take one alive. Tauriel he sent to Mirael's—he feared the worst. Orcs might have sought to burn them out, or they might have slain them and burned them. He would spare Zaile the sight of their bodies if he could.

 

He turned and made his way to where she stood, glassy eyed, obviously overwhelmed. Her first battle of this sort, and she looked as his son had, and so many others he had seen over the years had at their first experience in war. He felt such sorrow that she should ever have to see such things, so young, so fair, and leapt off his elk and embraced her.

 

“How badly are you hurt? I saw that spear thrust, what were you thinking closing your eyes in a battle, little fool?” He ran his hands over her side, but she did not flinch and he felt no injury at all—how was that possible?

 

“I needed to concentrate to bring the snow. The forest was screaming and I had to stop it,” her voice sounded lost.

 

“How badly are you hurt? Answer me now!”

 

“What, I'm not hurt at all. I already healed it.”

 

Her magic, of course. By the Valar, she was strong. Perhaps as strong as Galadriel or one of the First born, or would be once she matured. He thanked the Valar for her survival and his own, embraced her again.

 

She looked up, gingerly touched his cheek,“Why aren't you healing? Is it poison? It doesn't feel like a spell.” Her face appeared horrified at his wound, how strange.

 

“No. It is but a scratch, there are those more hurt than I that need my healing power far more.”

 

He saw Lileal at the same moment she did, and grieved as what he knew would be a certain death. But he was wrong. In amazement he watched as she snatched life from death twice, a combination of her magic and potions. No losses then, though many were injured.

 

He looked up to see Tauriel walk through the trees followed by Mirael and her two elleths. All his people would survive this day then. Gratitude flooded him, and relief.

 

Mirael bowed deeply and said, “Glad was I to see your warriors, my lord. The orcs break through the doors but the oak resisted them and hid us within himself.” She looked into the west, then strengthened said, “Our home is gone, stone by stone they broke it down and burnt the oak. I know not if he will sing again,” her voice was filled with a deep sorrow and she looked to Zaile, “Might you heal him, my lady, as before?”

 

“I'll try, I, he was my friend. The first I made in this place.”

 

She was so obviously weary, her face pale, and he little liked the idea of her further using her power. But it would be another battle he would lose should he attempt to stop her. So he would help her if he could.

 

“My lady, would you ride with me?” He held out his hand to her and she took it, smiling up at him briefly.

 

“Thank you, Thranduil.”

 

His heart sang when she called him by his name thoughtlessly, as she did of old, and he lifted her onto the elk and then seated himself behind her. Together they rode into the woods and soon they saw the effects of the fire, the clearing blanketed with snow to the elk's knees, but the great oak blackened and surrounded by still smoking wood that his rangers worked to remove. The orcs had chopped some of the other trees down to build a bonfire, filled the spring and stream with the corpses of Mirael's horse and livestock, and all the outbuildings and the stone portion of the manor were burnt and demolished.

 

This had been a place of life and light, and now it rang with sorrow and pain. She felt it too, pressed herself against him and held his hand for comfort. In such sorrow, it gladdened him that she would seek comfort from him. He knew not the source of this turn, but he welcomed it. She sighed, then straightened. Spade leapt up and shrunk herself mid-leap into her cat form—an odd sight indeed. He felt her magic in his bones, like a vibration, or like sun on his face.

 

“Thranduil, if I pass out, please don't worry. But don't let me fall either, ok?”

 

He clasped his arms around her, “I will care for you.” He would, gladly.

 

She held Spade with one hand and gestured with the other. The wood and stone debris crumpled itself into a pile of ashy pebbles and spread out across the clearing. The snow melted, extinguishing the fire completely, and he felt her lean toward the tree as of she would touch it. He urged the elk closer until she could touch the blackened bark.

 

“I'm so sorry, friend, so sorry,” she sounded as if she were weeping, “oh, no, I'm so sorry.”

 

She made to slide off the elk and at first he thought she had passed out but then he helped her to dismount and followed her. She laid down against the trunk, knelt in the mud at the foot of the tree and wept, keened with pain and he knew the great oak was beyond her ability to heal. But not his, perhaps. He began an old old song from Doriath, one that legend said was first sung by Melian. Badhor joined him, and Tauriel, all knew it as a song to greet the first bud of Spring. But it was a song of power, one that celebrated life as it called it forth. He felt the oak and the surrounding forest stir, felt Zaile add her own power to his song and he was young again in Arvernien, his mother and father teaching him the old songs of power.

 

Virtue spread out and into the oak, the Greenwood itself giving, sharing, to heal this wounded brother. He felt the oak waver then move solidly toward life, burnt but now steadfastly alive. Come spring there would be new growth, and the oak would regrow what was lost—diminished, but not forever. He opened his eyes and the clearing felt clean, the animals somehow gone from the spring and into the ground, and snow began to fall, a natural snow that soon would hide all that had transpired here. Though Mirael had lost her home, and Zaile her refuge. He looked down to find her sleeping against the oak, her face peaceful. Spade looked up at him and made as if to leap upon his shoulder.

 

He held up his hand. “Halt, beast. I am no tree for you to climb.” She blinked that long blink that he thought was rather her way of pleading. “You may ride with me, but not upon me, beast.”

 

Bent and lifted Zaile—she was filthy now, and he peeled off the befouled robe and wrapped her in his cloak. Handed her briefly to Badhor and then took her again and settled her into the saddle in front of him. Spade leapt up and snuggled into the cloak, disappearing into the folds and purring. Turning the elk he considered their options. The sun hung low in the sky and they were hours from any village or the halls. They had sufficient supplies but lacked proper shelter, especially for the wounded. Tents enough for ten, but they were twenty three now and he little liked them in the open, exhausted and wounded. But it would be slow going to the halls, through the dark and the cold, and they as yet had encountered the spiders.

 

“Tauriel, what say you? Badhor?”

 

“The wounded will worsen in the cold and two were stabbed with a Morgul blade. The children are ill-suited to the cold,” Badhor's voice held no certainty.

 

“We should feed and water the horses, then return. We may encounter the spiders, but it is certain our injured will worsen. Let us pray the Valar favor us this night,” Tauriel spoke calmly, wisely.

 

He nodded. The halls then.

 

They saw to the horses, discarded any weight they could, foodstuffs, tents, anything to lighten the load and grant them speed. The cart would carry the four elves unable to ride, the two children, Zaile would ride with him, and despite the depredations of the wargs they would have sufficient mounts.

 

They began the ride back as the sun cast fire across the winter sky. Zaile shifted against him and seemed to try to huddle closer to him for warmth, though the plate would prevent that. Strange that such a strong being should feel the cold so keenly. He reached into the cart and slung one of the remaining blankets over her then resumed his vigil. Should they be attacked, he would shift her into the cart. It rode in the center of their troop and they would keep it at their backs and defend it if attacked.

 

It began to snow again, and the wind picked up. They rode. The temperature dropped further--good news for them as the spiders were loath to hunt once it became sufficiently cold. Perhaps they would have good fortune.


	17. The Ride Back and The Council

The moon rose over the tops of the trees and Zaile stirred from the burrow she had made of blankets and his cloak. He'd wrapped a second blanket tightly around her when she drew up her legs, somehow twisted in the saddle, and pressed against his chest and shivered—it was not a secure riding position at all so he kept an arm tight around her. Spade was somewhere in that bundle, he assumed. He'd probably soon know--it was time for them to pause and feed and water the horses.

 

They entered the clearing and several of the rangers dismounted to break the ice over the spring fed pool. One brought water to him and he sipped it, cold and pure. Halfway there and so far the only threat they faced was the growing cold, and that was a threat only to the wounded. One of those struck with a Morgul blade joined the cart, but the other was still able to ride. Six wounded and no dead was lucky indeed, and he thought it very likely that the wounded would all survive.

 

In a sense, it was very good luck that Zaile left for Mirael's today. The band would have certainly killed Mirael and her children, then continued to roam and wreak havoc. He questioned how they found Mirael's small holding. Was is luck or had they somehow infiltrated and identified the location of established settlements? Thranduil frowned and glared at the single orc the rangers brought back alive. They would speak with him and learn what they could, though that would likely be little. Most of the soldier orcs were of such low intellect they remembered little of any plan and required constant direction in anything save destruction. Little better than beasts, without the redeeming qualities of natural creatures.

 

Zaile stirred against him again, and he held her close with both arms, taking the opportunity to wrap her in the blankets as best he could to keep out the wind. To him it felt bracing, but not utterly miserable, but she clearly felt the cold keenly. The night was full of stars, and the moon shown through the branches of the winter bare trees. Beautiful, the wood glistened in the moonlight as the horses stamped and elves rushed to water and feed them. There was movement under the blankets and Spade dropped down to pad across the snow into the underbrush. Then Zaile emerged to look up at him sleepily.

 

“Sweet Hecate, it is cold,” she looked out and around, seemed disoriented then looked up at the moon and seemed to strengthen in its light. How strange her power was to him, but this at least he understood. The stars called to him similarly.

 

“We are halfway.”

 

“Right,” she made as if to get down and he helped her dismount then followed her. “Lileal?”

 

“The cart. She is alive and seems likely to survive, though has not awakened.”

 

Zaile made her way there and he followed. The rear of the cart was covered with a makeshift tent of sorts to keep the children and the wounded from the wind and the cold. She parted the tent flaps, looked in and he saw Mirael's children huddled with the unconscious wounded.

 

Zaile looked concerned and then said, “Are you cold?”

 

Thranduil could not hear their reply but whatever they said Zaile reached out her hand and Spade came running, leapt and landed lightly on her shoulder. Zaile held out a finger and Thranduil watched as the little cat swiftly bit it and Zaile traced a design at the front of the tent, one on each flap, with her blood.

 

“Zaile,” he grabbed her hand and watched as the slight wound closed.

 

“It's just a quick warming glyph. It requires virtually no power under the moon like this.” She looked in at the children, “Better?”

 

Thranduil felt the warmth radiating from the flap, saw the children nod and look more than a little overwhelmed. But at least they were warm, and it would give the wounded a better chance at survival.

 

“Come, there is water and I have food. We will ride again soon.”

 

She nodded, then said, “I want to stretch my legs. I'll be back in a minute.”

 

Thranduil turned his back to give her privacy and thought to remove his plate armor, at least the upper body and arms. No doubt it would prove more comfortable for her, warmer, and there was little chance of a spider attack in this cold.

 

“Badhor, assist me.”

 

Quickly, he removed his armor with Badhor's help and observed as he wrapped it carefully and stowed it in the cart.

 

“If you are taking off yours, can I please take this armor off my legs? And the awful thing on my head? They are both unbelievably uncomfortable,” he turned and saw her emerge from the brush.

 

“Of course, though I would ask you to keep the mail.”

 

“That's fine. It's actually really comfortable. But those leg things are heavy and freezing cold and so is that hat.”

 

“Greaves. And they are made of steel as is the coif on your head. The shirt is mithril.”

 

“The mithril is great. Steel armor, mmm, not so much.”

 

Badhor would have helped her, but he waved him away and bent to remove her greaves. Easily done.

 

“Mithril is great indeed. Exceeding rare and precious, prized above all metals.”

 

“This is a whole shirt of it,” she ran her hands over it, seemed to be admiring how it shown in the moonlight, “It's beautiful and feels like wearing nothing at all. But it stopped that spear. This is really nice.”

 

“Yes. My son's shirt from his youth, and now yours. I will have it remade to properly fit you.”

 

She looked up at him in surprise, “This is like a shirt of gold,”

 

“No. It is worth is far more, twenty times that of gold. It is a near priceless metal as there is no more to be had.”

 

“I can't take this, I”

 

“It is your payment, and for my peace of mind. You will take it and wear it.”

 

She set her mouth, then seeming to realize he would not budge on this, said, “Thank you.”

 

He bowed his head in acknowledgment and led her back to the elk. It was nearly done with its mash, watered, soon they would begin their journey again. Thranduil reached into his saddle bags and offered her travel biscuits and the mug of water Badhor brought him.

 

She bit into one and said, “You keep cookies hidden in your saddle? The king keeps a snack on him?”

 

For some reason she seemed to find this hugely amusing, smiled at him between bites.

 

“It is wise to bring provisions.”

 

“Sure, but I guess I just thought you'd have a group of people do that for you, like a portable kitchen to cook for you on demand. Not a secret stash of cookies.”

 

“I hunt by myself on occasion, though rarely in these dark days.”

 

Her expression sobered, looked strangely compassionate, almost as if she pitied him,“These are good, thank you.”

 

He handed her another and thought how oddly like and unlike an elf she was. She ate like a starved hobbit, felt the cold like a human—even now she shivered in her blankets, and found the oddest things amusing. But she moved like an elf, had the luminous beauty of an elf, was more durable even than an elf. Such an interesting combination of strength and weakness, he was fascinated by her and glad they again had this easy camaraderie. He was uncertain as to the source of the change, but he dared to hope it would continue.

 

She ate everything and looked to see if he had more. A hobbit, indeed. Ah, her magic—yes, no doubt she was far hungrier than him. He'd forgotten it's effects on her when she used a great deal.

 

“There is dried fruit and cheese as well, if you wish.”

 

“Oh, I do—I'm so hungry I could eat your moose. Anything, I'll literally eat anything.”

 

He barked out surprised laughter—the image of her attempting to kill and eat his moose vastly amusing for the sheer ridiculousness of it. She cocked her head at him and seemed puzzled at his reaction, then clearly decided it would be pointless to ask.

 

“I will fetch you further provisions so my moose is safe from your depredations.”

 

“I'd cook him first. I'm not a savage.”

 

They'd kept some of the provisions for Mirael's, enough to make it to the halls plus a couple of days should they be forced to make camp. He selected cheese, dried fruit, half a loaf of bread, and a very large amount of dried meat for Spade.

 

“Might your cat eat dried meat?”

 

“Oh, thank you, yes! She looked and there's no game here at all, at least close by.” She tossed a strip of the meat and the little cat leapt and twisted in the air to catch it. Then, with a smile, she handed him back the bag and said, “Here, you can feed her,”

 

And so they stood for a time, Spade eating an amount of meat likely double her body weight and Zaile eating enough for two grown males, two very hungry grown males.

 

“Oh, that's better. Thank you.”

 

“I am glad my moose shall live to fight another day. Between you and your cat, I suspect you'd have reduced him to bones. Uncooked.”

 

She laughed and took his gloved hand, leaned against him and smiled, “I promise I won't eat him. Swear.”

 

He looked down at her, dark hair dotted with snow, cheeks and lips red with the cold and thought how he wished to kiss her warm, how fair and wild a creature she was, so strange and so innocently beguiling. And then she sneezed, and he remembered how cold it must feel to her, “Come, it is time to go. Here, allow me to assist you with your blankets,”

 

He had her sit on the edge of the cart and switched her blankets for two of the ones that were already warm, then he had her sit on the first blanket, tucked it up over her feet, and then wrapped it around her securely. The next he folded up over her feet, then wrapped around her leaving the top open so she could pull it over her head or not. Finally, he grabbed another blanket for once he had her settled on the elk—given the magical warmth of the cart they could spare another.

 

“You seem good at this,” her voice sounded amused, as if it surprised her.

 

“I used to wrap my son so when he was small and would insist on accompanying me in winter,”

 

“It's wonderfully warm, but how am I to walk to the elk or ride him?”

 

He swung her up into his arms and carried her to the elk, “Side saddle, and I shall hold you in place. Badhor,” he handed her and the third blanket to the other male briefly, mounted and took her back. “You may hold on to me if you wish, but I will not let you fall.” He settled her against him then took the last blanket and slung it over her and tucked it around her. She curled against his chest, her head over his heart and he saw Spade leap up and burrow under the third blanket to join her.

 

“If I cast for warmth, will it make you too warm?” He heard her muffled voice.

 

Possibly. “No, not at all.”

 

He felt warmth spread against his chest and legs, a pleasant warmth like the sun on a cool spring day.

 

“Is that ok?”

 

“Yes.”

 

They were ready to finish this trek and he felt confident that all would arrive in good order. Nearly at the point that they should encounter outriders for the halls, they would thus be in easy range of reinforcements should anything untoward happen. Thranduil gestured, and they began the return ride.

 

She huddled closer to him, held on to his chest, and he wrapped her with his arm more tightly, “You will not fall.”

 

“I know, but you're warm.”

 

He chuffed a laugh, “We will soon be in the halls.”

 

Soon, he felt her relax against him. He wrapped the reins around the pommel and held her close as she slept. The elk knew his way home from here, and he could guide him with knees alone should need arise. It was a pleasure to hold her warm and trusting in his arms, in the clear moonlight. He would be loath to release her once they reached the halls.

 

A band of guardsmen and rangers rode towards them out of the dark. Mileal, Tauriel's second, led them.

 

“Well met, Mileal.”

 

“My lord, it is good to see you well. We saw smoke near Mirael's and feared the worst. Orcs attacked a village, spiders another, it seems a concerted attack testing for weakness. The invaders are slain or captured.”

 

“Losses?”

 

“None, my lord. Many injured but no dead as yet.”

 

He nodded. That was good tidings indeed. “We slew a troop of 50 orcs. They attacked Mirael's, but we arrived in time. We have wounded, four with normal wounds and two with a morgul blade. Have you a healer among you?”

 

Two elves dismounted and he waved them toward the cart. The two groups blended together and continued the ride towards the halls.

 

“We have secured the borders my lord, doubled the guard and brought in any who lived close to the border to more secure villages. The villages have been warned and mounted their own defenses in case of further incursions. The reports of spiders and orcs ceased at nightfall. We think we have eliminated this wave. Scouts report no further orcs departing Dol Guldur or Gundabad, and the spiders are fled to their nests close to Dol Guldur.”

 

“A test then, for weakness, or for some other reason known only to the enemy.”

 

“Uncertain. We captured four orcs and I see you have one. Perhaps we will know more after their interrogation.”

 

“Let us hope so, but for now continue the wise measures you made. We will decide in council what response to make beyond that.”

 

“Yes, my lord.” Mileal bowed her head and rode back to her troop. They encircled their group and escorted them to the halls. Songs of healing rose from the cart and he joined the song, as did others. The need for silence was over—no one would attack a troop the size of theirs this close to his halls. After the healing songs, he began a song celebrating victory and life, a rousing ballad about returning home alive and well to one's beloved. Soon the wood echoed with the merry voices of his people, and laughter. He looked down to see Zaile part the blankets to look sleepily up at him.

 

“Are you singing?”

 

“For a time I was.”

 

“You sound happy.”

 

Happy. Yes, he felt happy as well, for the first time in quite a long while indeed. “I will sing you another song, if you like, of Doriath before the fall.”

 

“Yes, please,” she sat up, her head on his shoulder, and petted his hair where it fell over his chest and into her blankets, “are we far from the halls?”

 

“No. Perhaps another hour. The wounded require a slow pace.”

 

“Time enough for singing then.”

 

“As you wish, my lady.”

 

He sang as they rode, and his people sang with him, their voices weaving intricate harmonies with his. She looked up at him, rapt, seeming beguiled by him, her eyes shining with deep emotion as she lay upon his breast. When he finished, some of the guards started a somewhat rowdy drinking song that broke whatever spell he wove, and Zaile laughed to it along with the rest of the group. Perhaps he would sing to her again when next they were alone.

 

After many songs, they rode across the icy stone bridge, through the great doors and on into the stables far merrier than when they left, all seeming to be glad that none lost their lives and they again repelled their tireless enemy. He looked down at her, loath to leave this peaceful intimacy between them. After a moment she looked at him inquiringly, then glanced at Badhor who was patiently waiting to assist. Very well. He handed her to Badhor, then dismounted and helped her to unwind from her many blankets and remove the mail.

 

“I must meet with the council concerning the attacks today. I hope to join you for dinner, should you wish, but can not be certain of it. I ask you to rest as much as possible—I may have need of your talents soon.”

 

She nodded, “Dinner sounds great, if you have time. I will rest and on awakening go to the halls of healing to see if I can be of assistance.”

 

“You will not exert yourself to the point of exhaustion.”

 

“I won't unless it is life or death.”

 

“Agreed.”

 

He considered that this was her first experience with this sort of up close battle. She had so far shown no signs of trauma, had slept as peacefully as one could while riding. Still, he was concerned.

 

“Allow me escort you back to your quarters, Zaile.”

 

“I know the way, and you have a lot to do. It's ok, I'm ok. Really.”

 

She seemed sincere and so he stroked the hair back from her face and said, “Sleep well, Zaile.”

 

With a smile she embraced him briefly, as the edain were wont to do with their close confidants, and said, “I hope you get some rest too, Thranduil. I will see you tomorrow.” Then she turned and walked into the halls, Spade trotting behind her flicking her tail from side to side.

 

* * *

 

Zaile woke slowly, felt the weird disorientation that often comes after too many events too close together and total exhaustion—where am I? What am I doing here? And then she remembered yesterday, and Lileal, and sat up and reached for her robe. The guard would hopefully have news.

 

No guard outside her door. Well, that made sense given how strongly she'd objected in the past, but for once she wished there were someone to ask questions and fetch breakfast—she was starving. Normally there was fruit, bread, and cheese in her sitting room but they must have removed it since she would be at Mirael's. Maybe she still had something in her pack? She padded over, opened it and called for breakfast food. It tipped over and disgorged three granola bars, a half gallon of still cold milk, a banana, a warm cinnamon roll, and two bags of bacon jerky. That would work. She called to see if there was any cat food left and got a tub of raw venison chunks. Perfect. She probably should restock though for both of them just in case. After she ate, bathed, and dressed in a simple leggings and tunic, at least the simplest she could find—the tunic was a pale green velvet lightly figured in silver and the leggings light grey leather with matching boots, she used a bit of magic to plait her hair up and away from her face and down her back in a long braid. Best to keep it out of the way. Finally, she threw on a darker green over robe and headed out. No one was in the hall at all. She started walking toward the exit from the royal quarters, as best she remembered it, and was glad to see Badhor and four other guards standing at the doors leading out into the general halls.

 

“Well met, Badhor, could you direct me to the halls of healing?”

 

“It would be my pleasure to escort you, Lady Zaile, if you will?”

 

“Yes, please, I would appreciate it.”

 

Badhor smiled in genuine pleasure and said, “Thank you for your aid yesterday. All of our company are recovering well.”

 

“Thank the gods. But I could not have healed the elleth with the abdominal wound without your strength.”

 

Badhor colored faintly, and gave the slightest of nods, as if his part were of utter unimportance. It struck her that she had vastly misjudged this male, and that he was a good and faithful person, trustworthy and loyal if stern.

 

They walked swiftly through the halls, and Zaile noticed more glances and whispers, more outright staring (and some of it none too friendly) than before. Something was definitely different. Maybe it had little to do with her and the people were just on edge from the attacks.

 

They arrived at the halls of healing and she could hear the sound of singing from within, as well as moans.

 

“Some companies were not as fortunate as ours,” Badhor said sadly.

 

“I would have...”

 

“The king gave orders for you to sleep until you awoke naturally.”

 

“Badhor...”

 

“My lady...”

 

“Right. He is the king. Well, I'll do what I can now. Thank you for escorting me,” she could discuss this later with Thranduil.

 

She entered the halls and opened her senses. Many wounded, but thankfully few gravely so. She headed to one whose life felt the most dim, an elleth that was missing her arm below the elbow and with seeping abdominal wounds. She was thankfully unconscious. Well rested, her magic waning but recharged, she could heal her. The arm would need to be restored next full moon but she could save her life now.

 

“Lady Zaile, Arneth would not thank you were you to heal her.”

 

She turned and saw the head healer, Celebredom. His voice was compassionate, but firm.

 

“Why not?”

 

The healer looked uncomfortable, then said, “Without her arm, she,”

 

Oh, this bullshit. The old ones and their stupid obsession with physical perfection.

 

He continued after hesitating, “she would prefer not to live if she can not be an archer, a ranger. I disagree, but even were we to heal her she will fade.”

 

Ok, that was a reason she could respect, “I can regrow her arm next full moon when I am at peak power. It will hurt like hell, but I can do it. It will work as well as before. It's better to patch her up enough to survive for now and move on to another patient until I run out of power, but I can definitely restore her arm.”

 

The healer assessed her, then said, “Can you do this for others?”

 

“Yes, but it's hard for me. I, well, I haven't been training long and I just shove power at things until I make them do what I want. Maybe a few a month depending on how extensive the regrowth and how well they respond to my magic. But yes, I can get them all eventually. I get better, faster, each time I heal. My instructor keeps saying that I'm doing it the hardest way possible, but I can and have done it.”

 

“Perhaps we might add in our healing songs...” the healer seemed lost in thought, but far more hopeful than before, “Yes, Arneth would take this chance. I will assist you.”

 

Zaile laid her hand on Arneth's forehead and called on the magic in her as Celebredom began to sing. Another voice joined his and she recognized Badhor's voice, and then voices she did not know wove a magic unfamiliar and yet, and yet like a sound she had been waiting to hear inside herself. Something unfurled inside her and joined with her power, a power magical but not witchly. This power was only life with no death, no darkness, a one-sided coin that was supposed to be one-sided. It could serve as a funnel to her other power, the far stronger power, though it would be much like directing a raging river though a narrow channel—best to carefully and slowly divert a tiny portion and let the rest rage on. Maybe she could do this the easy way. Maybe this was what her instructor was talking about.

 

No. This was something else. Elven power. This was her elven power. Huh. Her grandmother had told her it would wake in time, and it reached out to her in her need, well suited for this. She joined the two powers and allowed them to flow into Arneth, allowed the song to guide her, felt the power knit together the elleth as if Arneth's body were her own, as if her immortal capacity to heal were part of the song and the two powers joined. Zaile stretched out her arm and felt the tissue re-knit itself. Or was it Arneth's arm? She was lost in the song and the power. Then, it was done and she felt a decrease of her power but far less than expected. She opened her eyes and looked down to see Arneth looking up at her, utterly whole, her expression one of both awe and fear.

 

Zaile stepped back and noticed the other elves around her seemed equally taken aback.

 

“I, the song made it easier for me. I could feel how to fix it so I did,” her voice sounded tentative, even to her. She looked down at Arneth, “I'm sorry if I hurt you, I am still learning.”

 

The elleth blinked, then started laughing, “The wizard that gave me back my life and my arm is apologizing that it _**hurt**_? No, my lady, it did not hurt. I thought myself on the way to Mandos' halls and I open my eyes to find myself hale and whole.” Arneth sat up, then braced herself against the bed, “If a bit weak still, it seems. Thank you, my lady. The reports of your power seemed mere tales to me but I see they were of no compare to the reality of it. Thank you for my life.” She bowed her head in deepest respect.

 

Zaile hardly knew what to say, so she said, “I'm glad it worked. I'm still learning,” which made the ranger laugh harder.

 

“Then you will be strong indeed when you are fully taught, my lady. Thank you for making me part of your practice. There are others here who would thank you to make the attempt on them as well.”

 

“I'll do my best, I, I hate to see others hurt.”

 

Arneth smiled kindly at her then and Zaile felt the weight of the ranger's many years in it. This was an old elf, possibly even older than Thranduil. “Much has changed in the Greenwood in my life, and much darkness has entered. But today I feel light, hopeful as I have not in many a year. Thank you, my lady.”

 

Celebredom led her then from patient to patient, the elves singing and her using this new found combination to heal until finally she began to feel her power drop closer and closer to exhaustion. She could push past it, call on the reserves in the necklace or Spade, but Thranduil had said he might have need of her.

 

“Celebredom, how many more are severely injured?”

 

“Five, though only two are in danger. The other three will survive but are in considerable pain and will have a long time of healing ahead.”

 

If she told Celebredom of the king's words he would forbid her to heal further, and that would be that. She had said life or death, and she would heal the two and see about the three.

 

“I can do it, if there are still singers to help.” They had rotated out a series of singers to help her guide the healing. Once she figured out how to return to her own realm, she would see if this method would work with other beings beside elves. Immortals froze at different ages and so there was some call for healers among all the races.

 

“Yes, of course. Let us begin.”

 

She looked down at the next elf that lay between life and death, an elf so ravaged by multiple warg bites that she could not even tell the gender of the person. How they were alive was a mystery, and she found their stubborn determination to live admirable.

 

The song began and she entered the healing, guiding the magic to knit back muscle and bone, felt Spade's weight as she leapt to her shoulder to assist. Better. She could do this.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil nodded as Badhor brought word that Zaile had found her way to the halls of healing. In truth, he doubted he would have need of her this day—he simply wished her to refrain from overextending herself. There was little chance of that given the number of those close to death, he thought grimly. She would push herself to exhaustion and he would let her as it would save lives. Given the swirl of rumors surrounding them both, it would be good for her to establish both her power and her kindness in a more visible way. There were rumors regarding her power, that she had bewitched the king, enchanted him to love her for her own purposes. False, he knew, as she was disinterested in being queen and troubled at his desire to wed her.

 

Jealousy. After the loss of his wife, many elleths had subtly, and some not so subtly, indicated they would be open to being courted by the king. None of them moved him, regardless of their beauty. Perhaps the time was wrong, or he too old, his heart too dark. His grief and rage too deep. Perhaps. It was possible Zaile's magic had renewed him much as it renewed the land where she danced, and thus made possible what before had proven to be not. He could not deny that his link to her grew stronger, and he himself more vigorous, each time he felt the warm light of her renewing magic. But she warned him, repeatedly, of its effects and yet he insisted on accompanying her. That was his own choice, and he'd found her exceeding fair and fascinating from the moment he saw her. Had felt an immediate connection and the bitter sting of jealousy to see her attentions to the youth Galasson. No, he thought her magic had given him some of the vigor of his youth and thus made his desire more difficult to manage, but it did not spark it—that was all her.

 

He refocused his attention on the council. Long had they discussed this move of the Enemy's. It was a coordinated attack, feints at multiple points at his borders. All exterminated with relative ease, but a troubling increase in activity and a possible prelude to open war. As he suspected, the rangers reported that the orcs would avoid the areas Zaile cleansed if at all possible but could endure if necessary. It did seem to weaken them, much as the sun did, but it did not prove the bar it did to the spiders. The five orcs they interrogated knew little, only that the Enemy's interest in lands outside his own was renewed. They confirmed his move to Mordor and the installment of three of his Nazgul at Dol Guldur in his stead. That was useful information, if already suspected—who else would have lit the smoking fires of Mordor but Sauron?

 

Long had they held here, and long could they hold. But all were dismayed at the certainty of Sauron's return. War was inevitable now, though without his ring Sauron was much diminished. He would be seeking it, and they could hope he would be long in finding it. But they must prepare for war. A year, a decade, it was certain now. He would send word to Imladris and Lothlorien. No doubt there would be a council called once travel was safer and the mountain passes cleared, though it would likely speed the tide of elves leaving Middle Earth as well.

 

Not he, not his people, and he doubted the Silvan elves of Lothlorien would leave either. The Greenwood was his first love, and though it was much diminished it remained so. He would stay unless there were no other choice, as would his people. So they must hold.

 

“We will move the smaller settlements closer to the halls, consolidate those settlements willing to join with other settlements. The crown will cover all costs. Those of age shall train with sword as well as bow.” All his people were archers, but only those who chose to be warriors typically trained with sword or other weapons.

 

Nods all around, most had fought with his father Oropher and knew the sort of battle they faced.

 

“Do we march to war?” From Tuel, perhaps his adviser with the best mind for war. She was cautious, thoughtful, and ever vigilant. The Greenwood's long stand against Dol Guldur had much to do with her wisdom and strength.

 

“No. We hold as we have held before. I would not send us to fight in another land and leave our own defenseless against Dol Guldur. We prepare for battle here.”

 

Tuel looked thoughtful, then replied, “Agreed. Though when the time comes we may consider sending forces to support Lothlorien or Erebor if the Enemy attacks there first. He may attack all at once, or he may attempt to pick us off one by one. I would recommend a garrison built nigh to the Carrock and equipped with boats. Swiftly could we send support to Lorien and Beorn has ever been our ally. Erebor is a swift march, but Lorien is not. The river would prove faster.”

 

There was debate between his councilors and he listened for a time, but the merits of Tuel's proposal were evident. They would approve it, but of course they must discuss it. _**Always**_ they must discuss it, though on occasion this was beneficial. He knew himself to be cautious, and his council was a mix of those quick to act and those more cautious than even himself. It guaranteed conflict, which was often tiresome, but it helped him avoid the mistakes of his father who choose councilors far too similar to himself to see his poor choices. He would never see himself surrounded by more dead than living, not again, not if he could avoid such a fate.

 

A consensus—yes. “Very well. A garrison shall be built and the one close to the halls fortified. I wish to consider how best to use the natural defenses of the wood to protect our people. I would see the mountains rid of the spiders and goblins—let us force them back so they have no hiding places between here and Dol Guldur. Make a plan for this, individually, and we shall meet again in a fortnight.” He would consult Zaile regarding her abilities at the fullness of her powers. He had seen healing, now his thoughts turned to her skill for war.

 

“There is one other matter of concern, my king. The Lady Zaile,” Garthil spoke quietly, but firmly, “resides in the royal quarters. It appears she is no longer a _**servant**_ of the realm and has become something rather _**more**_.”

 

He little liked the word servant, nor the way the elleth emphasized it, “Indeed. And if this is so?”

 

“A female of unknown origin, one perhaps reluctant, and one with some elvish ancestry, but not all, bearing powers unknown to this realm. Our concerns are surely obvious to one of your wisdom.” Here she inclined her head in respect, possibly genuine.

 

“Obvious though they may be, I would hear them, as I would hear all my councilors' wisdom.” Better to have them ask what they will than anticipate and perhaps raise more concerns with his speech.

 

“Very well. Who are her people? She looks to be of the Noldor and we have heard that she is of the race of witches, but that these are not human witches but something else. My lord, _**ever**_ have the witches of Arda been dark, though it is true that the lady _**seems**_ fair in heart.”

 

Thranduil felt his temper begin to rise and quelled it. They knew not his lady and sought only the best for the realm. It was clear Garthil spoke for most of the others, and that her questions came of discussion between them.

 

“I know not her parents, nor her grandparents. Only that they are elves formerly of this world and the rest of her family of the race of witches. She has the power to move between worlds as one might move from one room to another, though it appears she may find leaving this realm troublesome—her injury was caused by attempting to leave to consult with her family regarding my declaration of intent to court her. Her cousin is the king of their elven realm and her grandmother his aunt, though she has not mentioned their names. The witches of her realm are not human—she was intrigued at the idea of humans studying magic as in her world it is an inborn trait and can not be learned. Even among the witches, few can perform all magic. Most are limited to one sort, either warriors, healers, enchanters, conjurers, or seers. She has three—conjurer, warrior, and healer—and is quite strong for her kind.”

 

“You know not her people and yet you declare yourself courting her?” This quickly, in shock, from Tuel.

 

“I do. There is time for those discussions,” even to himself it sounded strange. But she had not offered her ancestry, nor inquired regarding his, and how to broach such a subject?

 

Tuel looked troubled, as did his other councilors.

 

“Some have expressed concern the lady feels herself a prisoner here, and there is the matter of an oath of _**service**_ between you.”

 

“A misunderstanding, and the lady is no servant to me.”

 

“And yet, there is an oath of service binding her to you.”

 

He began to lose patience, “If you have a question, Garthil, ask it.”

 

Her lips tightened and she said, “One who lacks the freedom to leave, who seems reluctant...”

 

He saw nods and exchanged looks. There was agreement on this point.

 

“You ask if I am like to _**Eol**_?” Outrage filled his voice, and anger. They had known him millenia, surely they knew him to be no Dark elf.

 

Galadas spoke before Garthil could answer, “I consider the lady Zaile to have a definite fondness for our king, but she is young, perhaps too young to know her mind regarding such a thing as marriage. I have spoken with her often and I sensed no darkness, but rather the opposite—a naive belief in good and that all beings have the capacity for it. None who have been present for the working of her magic sensed ill effect or darkness, though it is perhaps more of the physical senses than any elven magic.”

 

“Why came she here?” Tuel again.

 

“She fled here by accident when pursued by another witch,” Galadas spoke before he could answer. Apparently they spoke of much in those library visits.

 

“Galadas, have you no concerns even regarding the speed of the king's declaration? Two weeks he had known her! Could not her magic have beguiled him?” This came from Erthon, one of his more cautious advisers.

 

“If so, he is not alone. If the king had not declared himself courting her, there are many who would have vied for the right. Would you have the same concerns regarding them, Erthon?”

 

Thranduil tired of this, but he could either hear them out or allow this to roil beneath the surface. Schooling his face, he said calmly, “I court her. She may yet refuse me and has refused no less than nine kings and princes of her own realm. If it is the council's will, I will release her from her oath of service.”

 

Discussion then, debate over whether it was better to retain the oath due to the usefulness of her power and the certainty of it for another ten months versus the unseemly appearance of their king courting one who was compelled to service. He considered. Assuredly, he feared she would flee him without the oath to bind her. But there should be no such oaths between lovers. If he were to court her properly, he must free her from her vow of service in hopes she would take another, more intimate vow.

 

Before any could speak, he said, “I will free her from her oath, but ask her to remain in my service as she will, much as I ask of you.”

 

A chorus of agreement, and a less tense council. While doubts obviously remained, his council seemed inclined to accept his choice, for now. No doubt they would watch, and make their own inquiries. He stood, “In a fortnight, an hour past the breakfast hour, we shall meet again. I thank you for your council.”

 

He walked out into the corridor and made his way to the halls of healing. It was late in the day, past the dinner hour, but he would comfort the wounded before he did ought else. Though his desire was to see his lady most of all, he would ever put his people before his own desires. Perhaps she lingered there still, though he would be wroth with her had she exhausted herself. 

 


	18. Healing Halls

 

Zaile woke slowly, felt the weird disorientation that often comes after too many events too close together and total exhaustion—where am I? What am I doing here? And then she remembered yesterday, and Lileal, and sat up and reached for her robe. The guard would hopefully have news.

 

No guard outside her door. Well, that made sense given how strongly she'd objected in the past, but for once she wished there were someone to ask questions and fetch breakfast—she was starving. Normally there was fruit, bread, and cheese in her sitting room but they must have removed it since she would be at Mirael's. Maybe she still had something in her pack? She padded over, opened it and called for breakfast food. It tipped over and disgorged three granola bars, a half gallon of still cold milk, a banana, a warm cinnamon roll, and two bags of bacon jerky. That would work. She called to see if there was any cat food left and got a tub of raw venison chunks. Perfect. She probably should restock though for both of them just in case. After she ate, bathed, and dressed in a simple leggings and tunic, at least the simplest she could find—the tunic was a pale green velvet lightly figured in silver and the leggings light grey leather with matching boots, she used a bit of magic to plait her hair up and away from her face and down her back in a long braid. Best to keep it out of the way. Finally, she threw on a darker green over robe and headed out. No one was in the hall at all. She started walking toward the exit from the royal quarters, as best she remembered it, and was glad to see Badhor and four other guards standing at the doors leading out into the general halls.

 

“Well met, Badhor, could you direct me to the halls of healing?”

 

“It would be my pleasure to escort you, Lady Zaile, if you will?”

 

“Yes, please, I would appreciate it.”

 

Badhor smiled in genuine pleasure and said, “Thank you for your aid yesterday. All of our company are recovering well.”

 

“Thank the gods. But I could not have healed the elleth with the abdominal wound without your strength.”

 

Badhor colored faintly, and gave the slightest of nods, as if his part were of utter unimportance. It struck her that she had vastly misjudged this male, and that he was a good and faithful person, trustworthy and loyal if stern.

 

They walked swiftly through the halls, and Zaile noticed more glances and whispers, more outright staring (and some of it none too friendly) than before. Something was definitely different. Maybe it had little to do with her and the people were just on edge from the attacks.

 

They arrived at the halls of healing and she could hear the sound of singing from within, as well as moans.

 

“Some companies were not as fortunate as ours,” Badhor said sadly.

 

“I would have...”

 

“The king gave orders for you to sleep until you awoke naturally.”

 

“Badhor...”

 

“My lady...”

 

“Right. He is the king. Well, I'll do what I can now. Thank you for escorting me,” she could discuss this later with Thranduil.

 

She entered the halls and opened her senses. Many wounded, but thankfully few gravely so. She headed to one whose life felt the most dim, an elleth that was missing her arm below the elbow and with seeping abdominal wounds. She was thankfully unconscious. Well rested, her magic waning but recharged, she could heal her. The arm would need to be restored next full moon but she could save her life now.

 

“Lady Zaile, Arneth would not thank you were you to heal her.”

 

She turned and saw the head healer, Celebredom. His voice was compassionate, but firm.

 

“Why not?”

 

The healer looked uncomfortable, then said, “Without her arm, she,”

 

Oh, this bullshit. The old ones and their stupid obsession with physical perfection.

 

He continued after hesitating, “she would prefer not to live if she can not be an archer, a ranger. I disagree, but even were we to heal her she will fade.”

 

Ok, that was a reason she could respect, “I can regrow her arm next full moon when I am at peak power. It will hurt like hell, but I can do it. It will work as well as before. It's better to patch her up enough to survive for now and move on to another patient until I run out of power, but I can definitely restore her arm.”

 

The healer assessed her, then said, “Can you do this for others?”

 

“Yes, but it's hard for me. I, well, I haven't been training long and I just shove power at things until I make them do what I want. Maybe a few a month depending on how extensive the regrowth and how well they respond to my magic. But yes, I can get them all eventually. I get better, faster, each time I heal. My instructor keeps saying that I'm doing it the hardest way possible, but I can and have done it.”

 

“Perhaps we might add in our healing songs...” the healer seemed lost in thought, but far more hopeful than before, “Yes, Arneth would take this chance. I will assist you.”

 

Zaile laid her hand on Arneth's forehead and called on the magic in her as Celebredom began to sing. Another voice joined his and she recognized Badhor's voice, and then voices she did not know wove a magic unfamiliar and yet, and yet like a sound she had been waiting to hear inside herself. Something unfurled inside her and joined with her power, a power magical but not witchly. This power was only life with no death, no darkness, a one-sided coin that was supposed to be one-sided. It could serve as a funnel to her other power, the far stronger power, though it would be much like directing a raging river though a narrow channel—best to carefully and slowly divert a tiny portion and let the rest rage on. Maybe she could do this the easy way. Maybe this was what her instructor was talking about.

 

No. This was something else. Elven power. This was her elven power. Huh. Her grandmother had told her it would wake in time, and it reached out to her in her need, well suited for this. She joined the two powers and allowed them to flow into Arneth, allowed the song to guide her, felt the power knit together the elleth as if Arneth's body were her own, as if her immortal capacity to heal were part of the song and the two powers joined. Zaile stretched out her arm and felt the tissue re-knit itself. Or was it Arneth's arm? She was lost in the song and the power. Then, it was done and she felt a decrease of her power but far less than expected. She opened her eyes and looked down to see Arneth looking up at her, utterly whole, her expression one of both awe and fear.

 

Zaile stepped back and noticed the other elves around her seemed equally taken aback.

 

“I, the song made it easier for me. I could feel how to fix it so I did,” her voice sounded tentative, even to her. She looked down at Arneth, “I'm sorry if I hurt you, I am still learning.”

 

The elleth blinked, then started laughing, “The wizard that gave me back my life and my arm is apologizing that it _**hurt**_? No, my lady, it did not hurt. I thought myself on the way to Mandos' halls and I open my eyes to find myself hale and whole.” Arneth sat up, then braced herself against the bed, “If a bit weak still, it seems. Thank you, my lady. The reports of your power seemed mere tales to me but I see they were of no compare to the reality of it. Thank you for my life.” She bowed her head in deepest respect.

 

Zaile hardly knew what to say, so she said, “I'm glad it worked. I'm still learning,” which made the ranger laugh harder.

 

“Then you will be strong indeed when you are fully taught, my lady. Thank you for making me part of your practice. There are others here who would thank you to make the attempt on them as well.”

 

“I'll do my best, I, I hate to see others hurt.”

 

Arneth smiled kindly at her then and Zaile felt the weight of the ranger's many years in it. This was an old elf, possibly even older than Thranduil. “Much has changed in the Greenwood in my life, and much darkness has entered. But today I feel light, hopeful as I have not in many a year. Thank you, my lady.”

 

Celebredom led her then from patient to patient, the elves singing and her using this new found combination to heal until finally she began to feel her power drop closer and closer to exhaustion. She could push past it, call on the reserves in the necklace or Spade, but Thranduil had said he might have need of her.

 

“Celebredom, how many more are severely injured?”

 

“Five, though only two are in danger. The other three will survive but are in considerable pain and will have a long time of healing ahead.”

 

If she told Celebredom of the king's words he would forbid her to heal further, and that would be that. She had said life or death, and she would heal the two and see about the three.

 

“I can do it, if there are still singers to help.” They had rotated out a series of singers to help her guide the healing. Once she figured out how to return to her own realm, she would see if this method would work with other beings beside elves. Immortals froze at different ages and so there was some call for healers among all the races.

 

“Yes, of course. Let us begin.”

 

She looked down at the next elf that lay between life and death, an elf so ravaged by multiple warg bites that she could not even tell the gender of the person. How they were alive was a mystery, and she found their stubborn determination to live admirable.

 

The song began and she entered the healing, guiding the magic to knit back muscle and bone, felt Spade's weight as she leapt to her shoulder to assist. Better. She could do this.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil nodded as Badhor brought word that Zaile made it to the halls of healing. In truth, he doubted he would have need of her this day—he simply wished her to refrain from overextending herself. There was little chance of that given the number of those close to death, he thought grimly. She would push herself to exhaustion and he would let her as it would save lives. Given the swirl of rumors surrounding them both, it would be good for her to establish both her power and her kindness in a more visible way. There were rumors regarding her power, that she had bewitched the king, enchanted him to love her for her own purposes. False, he knew, as she was disinterested in being queen and troubled at his desire to wed her.

 

Jealousy. After the loss of his wife, many elleths had subtly, and some not so subtly, indicated they would be open to being courted by the king. None of them moved him, regardless of their beauty. Perhaps the time was wrong, or he too old, his heart too dark. His grief and rage too deep. Perhaps. It was possible Zaile's magic had renewed him much as it renewed the land where she danced, and thus made possible what before had proven to be not. He could not deny that his link to her grew stronger, and he himself more vigorous each time he felt the warm light of her renewing magic. But she warned him, repeatedly, of its effects and yet he insisted on accompanying her. That was his own choice, and he'd found her exceeding fair and fascinating from the moment he saw her. Had felt an immediate connection and the bitter sting of jealousy to see her attentions to the youth Galasson. No, her magic had given him back some of the vigor of his youth and thus made his desire more difficult to manage, but it did not spark it—that was all her.

 

He refocused his attention on the council. Long had they discussed this move of the Enemy's. It was a coordinated attack, feints at multiple points at his borders. All exterminated with relative ease, but a troubling increase in activity and a possible prelude to open war. As he suspected, the rangers reported that the orcs would avoid the areas Zaile cleansed if at all possible but could endure if necessary. It did seem to weaken them, much as the sun did, but it did not prove the bar it did to the spiders. The five orcs they interrogated knew little, only that the Enemy's interest in lands outside his own was renewed. They confirmed his move to Mordor and the installment of three of his Nazgul at Dol Guldur in his stead. That was useful information, if already suspected—who else would have lit the smoking fires of Mordor but Sauron?

 

Long had they held here, and long could they hold. But all were dismayed at the certainty of Sauron's return. War was inevitable now, though without his ring Sauron was much diminished. He would be seeking it, and they could hope he would be long in finding it. But they must prepare for war. A year, a decade, it was certain now. He would send word to Imladris and Lothlorien. No doubt there would be a council called once travel was safer and the mountain passes cleared, though it would likely speed the tide of elves leaving Middle Earth as well.

 

Not he, not his people, and he doubted the Silvan elves of Lothlorien would leave either. The Greenwood was his first love, and though it was much diminished it remained so. He would stay unless there were no other choice, as would his people. So they must hold.

 

“We will move the smaller settlements closer to the halls, consolidate those settlements willing to join with other settlements. The crown will cover all costs. Those of age shall train with sword as well as bow.” All his people were archers, but only those who chose to be warriors typically trained with sword or other weapons.

 

Nods all around, most had fought with his father Oropher and knew the sort of battle they faced.

 

“Do we march to war?” From Tuel, perhaps his adviser with the best mind for war. She was cautious, thoughtful, and ever vigilant. The Greenwood's long stand against Dol Guldur had much to do with her wisdom and strength.

 

“No. We hold as we have held before. I would not send us to fight in another land and leave our own defenseless against Dol Guldur. We prepare for battle here.”

 

Tuel looked thoughtful, then replied, “Agreed. Though when the time comes we may consider sending forces to support Lothlorien or Erebor if the Enemy attacks there first. He may attack all at once, or he may attempt to pick us off one by one. I would recommend a garrison built nigh to the Carrock and equipped with boats. Swiftly could we send support to Lorien and Beorn has ever been our ally. Erebor is a swift march, but Lorien is not. The river would prove faster.”

 

There was debate between his councilors and he listened for a time, but the merits of Tuel's proposal were evident. They would approve it, but of course they must discuss it. _**Always**_ they must discuss it, though on occasion this was beneficial. He knew himself to be cautious, and his council was a mix of those quick to act and those more cautious than even himself. It guaranteed conflict, which was often tiresome, but it helped him avoid the mistakes of his father who choose councilors far too similar to himself to see his poor choices. He would never see himself surrounded by more dead than living, not again, not if he could avoid such a fate.

 

A consensus—yes. “Very well. A garrison shall be built and the one close to the halls fortified. I wish to consider how best to use the natural defenses of the wood to protect our people. I would see the mountains rid of the spiders and goblins—let us force them back so they have no hiding places between here and Dol Guldur. Make a plan for this, individually, and we shall meet again in a fortnight.” He would consult Zaile regarding her abilities at the fullness of her powers. He had seen healing, now his thoughts turned to her skill for war.

 

“There is one other matter of concern, my king. The Lady Zaile,” Garthil spoke quietly, but firmly, “resides in the royal quarters. It appears she is no longer a _**servant**_ of the realm and has become something rather _**more**_.”

 

He little liked the word servant, nor the way the elleth emphasized it, “Indeed. And if this is so?”

 

“A female of unknown origin, one perhaps reluctant, and one with some elvish ancestry, but not all, bearing powers unknown to this realm. Our concerns are surely obvious to one of your wisdom.” Here she inclined her head in respect, possibly genuine.

 

“Obvious though they may be, I would hear them, as I would hear all my councilors' wisdom.” Better to have them ask what they will than anticipate and perhaps raise more concerns with his speech.

 

“Very well. Who are her people? She looks to be of the Noldor and we have heard that she is of the race of witches, but that these are not human witches but something else. My lord, _**ever**_ have the witches of Arda been dark, though it is true that the lady _**seems**_ fair in heart.”

 

Thranduil felt his temper begin to rise and quelled it. They knew not his lady and sought only the best for the realm. It was clear Garthil spoke for most of the others, and that her questions came of discussion between them.

 

“I know not her parents, nor her grandparents. Only that they are elves formerly of this world and the rest of her family of the race of witches. She has the power to move between worlds as one might move from one room to another, though it appears she may find leaving this realm troublesome—her injury was caused by attempting to leave to consult with her family regarding my declaration of intent to court her. Her cousin is the king of their elven realm and her grandmother his aunt, though she has not mentioned their names. The witches of her realm are not human—she was intrigued at the idea of humans studying magic as in her world it is an inborn trait and can not be learned. Even among the witches, few can perform all magic. Most are limited to one sort, either warriors, healers, enchanters, conjurers, or seers. She has three—conjurer, warrior, and healer—and is quite strong for her kind.”

 

“You know not her people and yet you declare yourself courting her?” This quickly, in shock, from Tuel.

 

“I do. There is time for those discussions,” even to himself it sounded strange. But she had not offered her ancestry, nor inquired regarding his, and how to broach such a subject?

 

Tuel looked troubled, as did his other councilors.

 

“Some have expressed concern the lady feels herself a prisoner here, and there is the matter of an oath of _**service**_ between you.”

 

“A misunderstanding, and the lady is no servant to me.”

 

“And yet, there is an oath of service binding her to you.”

 

He began to lose patience, “If you have a question, Garthil, ask it.”

 

Her lips tightened and she said, “One who lacks the freedom to leave, who seems reluctant...”

 

He saw nods and exchanged looks. There was agreement on this point.

 

“You ask if I am like to _**Eol**_?” Outrage filled his voice, and anger. They had known him millenia, surely they knew him to be no Dark elf.

 

Galadas spoke before Garthil could answer, “I consider the lady Zaile to have a definite fondness for our king, but she is young, perhaps too young to know her mind regarding such a thing as marriage. I have spoken with her often and I sensed no darkness, but rather the opposite—a naive belief in good and that all beings have the capacity for it. None who have been present for the working of her magic sensed ill effect or darkness, though it is perhaps more of the physical senses than any elven magic.”

 

“Why came she here?” Tuel again.

 

“She fled here by accident when pursued by another witch,” Galadas spoke before he could answer. Apparently they spoke of much in those library visits.

 

“Galadas, have you no concerns even regarding the speed of the king's declaration? Two weeks he had known her! Could not her magic have beguiled him?” This came from Erthon, one of his more cautious advisers.

 

“If so, he is not alone. If the king had not declared himself courting her, there are many who would have vied for the right. Would you have the same concerns regarding them, Erthon?”

 

Thranduil tired of this, but he could either hear them out or allow this to roil beneath the surface. Schooling his face, he said calmly, “I court her. She may yet refuse me and has refused no less than nine kings and princes of her own realm. If it is the council's will, I will release her from her oath of service.”

 

Discussion then, debate over whether it was better to retain the oath due to the usefulness of her power and the certainty of it for another ten months versus the unseemly appearance of their king courting one who was compelled to service. He considered. Assuredly, he feared she would flee him without the oath to bind her. But there should be no such oaths between lovers. If he were to court her properly, he must free her from her vow of service in hopes she would take another, more intimate vow.

 

Before any could speak, he said, “I will free her from her oath, but ask her to remain in my service as she will, much as I ask of you.”

 

A chorus of agreement, and a less tense council. While doubts obviously remained, his council seemed inclined to accept his choice, for now. No doubt they would watch, and make their own inquiries. He stood, “In a fortnight, an hour past the breakfast hour, we shall meet again. I thank you for your council.”

 

He walked out into the corridor and made his way to the halls of healing. It was late in the day, past the dinner hour, but he would comfort the wounded before he did ought else.

 

Thranduil looked down at the source of so much hope and not a little humor sprawled gracelessly across a bed in the healing halls, her little black cat similarly asleep. So, she had pressed well past the point of being tired and pulled on the resources of her cat until it was exhausted as well. He frowned at her in both irritation and worry—she had awoken from her long sleep but days ago after all-- as the head healer spoke somewhat defensively.

 

“She would not stop. After she healed those close to death, restored partial _**limbs**_ my lord in two cases, she moved to the severely injured until she finally fell into the arms of a young ranger who seemed...”

 

Celebredom stopped, seemed to consider his audience. Thranduil had heard of the young ranger's joy at being healed and then clear delight at holding the unconscious Zaile against his bare chest, and then horror when he heard _**this**_ was the female the king courted. His fellow rangers teased him relentlessly for apparently staring at her like a love-sick fool and daring to card his healed hand through her hair.

 

“The king will have it off you, lad.”

 

“But then Zaile can just re-grow it!”

 

To his credit, once the young fool realized the identity of his healer, he stood and laid her carefully in his bed, covered her with a blanket she promptly kicked off, and then politely requested a new bed as he was, “Feeling rather sick.”

 

That apparently set off another round of teasing, but under it was high spirits at seeing those they counted among the lost healed. One among them, a ranger who followed his father from Doriath, Arneth was her name, she showed him her arm and told him of Zaile's healing of it.

 

“She stretched out her arm and my arm followed it, the flesh regrowing as she stretched hers out to its fullest length. I felt muscle and bone regrow, it seemed to move from one part of my body to another, I do not know. I am whole, but feel weak as men say they do after a long sickness. But I am whole, entirely whole, and muscle can be strengthened.”

 

He smiled to see her well. She was a faithful competent warrior, and one he relied on in many capacities. “I am thankful for your healing, Arneth.”

 

“She apologized to me, my lord. For the pain, which was truly quite minimal, and told me she was still learning,” Arneth laughed at the memory, “I know not what she is, Gandalf's daughter, some other wizard, half-elven, nor do I care. The lady is fair and humble of heart.”

 

Thranduil nodded, “Indeed. I am in her debt.”

 

Arneth smiled knowingly and tilted her head, “I wish you good fortune in hunting, my lord.”

 

Thranduil arched a brow, “Have you no pity for the prey that such a grim hunter as myself should stalk her?”

 

Arneth laughed, “None at all, my lord. I am a practical elf. And this particular prey might be young but I judge it sufficiently grown and wily. I wish you fortune, as do many among your rangers.”

 

“But not all.”

 

“More with each day, my lord. And the deeds of this day will do much to silence those who speak in fear and ignorance.”

 

Thranduil thanked her again, and made his way among his people hearing much the same, though none so blunt as Arneth. Zaile had won many new admirers this day and done much to earn the good will of his warriors.

 

Celebredom was still talking, “and I have checked her fea. She is unharmed, merely quite tired. Refused to stop, my lord, though none remained close to death. I urged her, as did some of the singers, but she would have none of it. She bemoaned her lack of strength.” The healer shook his head, “What must her people be if she is weak and untrained.”

 

“She is not weak, even among them, though she is untrained. I do not blame you, Celebredom. The lady is _**most**_ stubborn and will have her way.”

 

“To be stubborn in the easing of pain is no great fault, my lord,”

 

“You need not fear I am wroth with her. Unless you advise against it, I shall take her to her quarters to rest.”

 

“It would be quieter, more private. Some have come to see her as word of her healing has spread. The lady would do well to rest before returning to the halls, to eat and truly rest well.”

 

Thranduil bent and lifted her, then had Badhor carry Spade. Amusingly, he seemed to regard Spade with some fear, as if the little cat might expand into her battle form and turn upon him.

 

“Be at peace, Badhor. Spade is judicious in her attacks. You are at no risk from her.”

 

Badhor visibly steeled himself and carefully picked up the cat to cradle it in his arms. It began purring immediately, to Badhor's evident surprise and pleasure.

 

“She likes you. You are quite safe.”

 

So they walked through the halls, the king and his guard, both the subject of curious looks and whispers until finally they reached the great doors leading to the royal quarters. The guards opened them and stood at attention as they walked past.

 

Thranduil walked into the room he used for work and laid Zaile carefully on the settee he used for rest and contemplation. She was so much smaller and shorter than him it was ample room for her to sleep. After Badhor laid Spade next to her, he covered her with a blanket and indicated for the servant to bank the fire.

 

“Badhor, have the kitchens send wine, fruit, cheese, bread, sweets, an array of foods that serve well at room temperature. The lady will awaken hungry.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

After the kitchens stocked his room with ample food, he waved away all—he would prefer to work in silence alone, but he wished to oversee Zaile's rest as well. She seemed to sleep peacefully, none of the weeping of the past, and her color was far better than when she slept and would not awaken. He should not worry yet. Focusing on his correspondence he lost himself in work for a time.

 

After he finished reading, his heart was more troubled than before. All reported more orc activity, black riders had been spotted in more than one place. The Enemy tried the edges of both Lorien and Imladris, skulked around Erebor. Gondor reported the fires of Mordor burned and armies assembled. Foul beasts of land and sky made there way there under cover of darkness. There could be little doubt their great enemy was preparing for battle.

 

Lothlorien and his own people were populous and strong. But most of the elven realms had far faded, and even his own was neither as populous or as strong after nigh on 2/3s were slaughtered in the last great war. Yes, they had rebuilt, and his population was almost as great as before but elves bred slowly—it took many years of peace to restore what could be lost in a single poorly planned battle. Many not of the Silvan elves or of those who chose to live among the Silvan would sail West. Many had already done so. The elves were far fewer that the last alliance. Men, men were far weaker. Some there were who held to the old ways, had the old strengths. His son walked with one such—Aragorn of Arathorn, in who the blood of kings ran true.

 

But one strong man was not enough, and he doubted Denethor would surrender his stewardship in any case. Little strength remained in Gondor and less in Rohan where the king was reputed to be under some vile influence. The restoration of Erebor was a strength, and clearly aligned against Sauron. Without his ring, yes, they could repel him again. But should he find it, all was lost. He remembered the pride of Isildur, he who cut the ring from Sauron's hand after Gil-galad and Erendil fell defeating him. Besotted with the power of the ring, he refused to destroy it and it led him to his death.

 

So much darkness. He could somewhat see the appeal of leaving Arda for another world. Not the unchanging lands of the Valar, no, not for he and his. But from Zaile's description her lands were rather more like Arda—a vast heavily forested world filled with elves and a few other immortals. He imagined it to be like Arda minus Morgoth's spoiling it, a pure clean place. Zaile said she had never encountered any being of pure evil prior to coming to this land. He could not imagine such a world, one where Morgoth's taint did not exist. He thought of the Black Gate. Ever the loss of his father and so many of his people before that iron cast horror darkened his heart. He was cautious, wisely cautious and would remain so to avoid such a loss again. Imagine a world where such had never happened, existed. It was not for him, not yet at least. He would fight for this darkened land because it was his and he loved it. He would hold fast as long as he could.

 

He dropped his head into his hands and sighed. Would it be better to remain here and defend? Or to go to war as his father had? He did not know. If Sauron returned he would not rest until all Arda burned and there was nothing left unspoiled. He would pick them off one by one. But an alliance? Come spring, he would seek a council with Elrond and Galadriel. But for now there was little he could do but wait and prepare his own lands.

 

* * *

 

Zaile awoke slowly, feeling Spade purr next to her under the cashmere-soft blanket, a large stone fireplace well stocked with logs and burning cozily. For a time she laid there, half awake, still tired but more hungry than tired. Where was she? She didn't recognize this room, though it was beautiful, intricately carved stone inlaid with precious metal and stones, fine tapestries and carpets, royal but still somehow homey. Sitting up she saw Thranduil at a large wooden table strewn with parchment and maps, holding his head in his hands, his circlet off and carelessly angled over a small pile of papers. She froze, heart thudding. These were his private quarters, they were alone. Not his bedroom, or the chamber they ate last time, but still these were clearly private. She watched him, and he did not seem to see her at all so engrossed was he in his own concerns. He radiated such worry and care, and she felt she saw him without pretense, a male striving at a difficult perilous endeavor, and largely alone at the task.

 

So weary. So lonely. How long had it been like this for him? Fear was supplanted with pity. She stood, thinking he would hear her and look up. But he was so lost in his concerns that he did not hear her then nor her approach to him. He sighed softly, and the sound pierced her. So proud, so strong, he had never appeared anything less than easily in control, capable of anything. But this elf seemed peeled bare. She hardly knew what to say so she reached out to stroke his hair, moved to his side and offered what comfort she knew to give. As a friend, as he had asked her last they spoke. He stilled, then sat up and leaned into her hand. Soft, silky, like spun moonlight that caught the gold from the firelight. She stroked his hair and then began to massage his shoulders, much as she might do one of her fellow coven sisters.

 

Though of course it was not the same, her sisters did not have his muscles, nor did they smell of woods and wood smoke, and some pleasant combination that was just him. At first he tensed as she massaged his shoulders--maybe they didn't have massage here? As she was about to withdraw, he unbent and allowed it. So she massaged down his back, down and up again, not an ounce of fat on him. But she knew that, the image of his lean torso seared into her brain from their first and only hook-up. Slowly he began to relax, and she added a hint of healing magic to aid in his soothing. He sighed again, this time in relief, and she felt glad he was comforted.

 

After a time, he took her hand and stood, led her to the settee and then sat next to her. His expression was open, kind, more caring than she had seen from him before. And so beautiful, as always.

 

“Thank you, my lady, for your ministrations to me. Are you not hungry after your work in the healing halls?” He indicated the untouched food.

 

“Yes, but I, yes, I am. Very much so.”

 

He smiled slightly and then stood and laded a plate with multiple foodstuffs, her favorites, then returned to lade a plate with sweets, again her favorites.

 

“Wine or juice?”

 

“Both, please.”

 

He brought glasses and the two vessels then poured her wine and juice, and wine for himself. Then he made a plate of food for himself and sat next to her eating in companionable silence. After a time, he filled her wine glass and his own and settled against the cushions to watch her eat, his own far smaller appetite satisfied. She was famished and ate her fill, then her fill again, the food seeming to simply disappear as if her stomach were a magic pack of sorts. Some men always commented on it, apparently ignorant that magic always demands a price of some kind, but not him. He just seemed interested and pleased to see her enjoy her repast.

 

It was quite warm, and she slipped off her outer robe leaving the tunic alone, the wine making her feel both relaxed and light headed. This was strong wine, stronger than before, and delicious.

 

“Have you no mercy to tempt me so when you have refused me?” She looked up surprised, both at the statement as well as the hungry intensity of his voice. He watched her intently, his eyes moving over the portion of her neck and shoulders revealed. A frisson of fear and desire shivered through her, and she slipped the robe back over herself and held it closed.

 

“It's hot in here.”

 

His eyebrows raised, and he laughed, “So it is. Forgive me, my lady, I forget that you seem to have no awareness of your effect on others.”

 

“I wear less than this all the time in my plane. Everyone does.” She did forget, especially when tired, that this realm would see something as ordinary as shoulders as erotic.

 

“Here, I will vent the heat.” He stood and pulled a couple of carefully hidden levers. A rush of cold air blew through the room causing the bed of glowing embers in the fire place to gutter into flames then subside as the smoke rose into the chimney. The room cooled and he shut the vents again, closed the doors to the fireplace, and joined her again on the settee. He wore simple clothes today, at least for him, but the pale blue gave his eyes a strange silver cast, like thin ice over a deep blue pond. With his pale skin and hair, but those oddly dark brows, his eyes were always striking, but tonight he was so beautiful it was like an enchantment.

 

“Zaile, continue to lean forward, to look at me so, and your refusal will mean little to me. I have my limits, even for your innocent temptation,” he reached out a pale hand and stroked along her jawline and down her throat to the edge of her robe and paused there, “I should not have brought you here, but I wished to ensure you slept well and peacefully. Come, I will escort you to your quarters.” He stood and offered her his hand.

 

She stood and took his hand, but stopped him, stood looking up at him and then moved toward him as if drawn by some spell. Where he had touched her seemed to have set a fire in her, such a small thing, such a minor touch, and she ached to feel him touch her more.

 

“Test me not, my lady. I am no one to toy with,” his voice was a soft growl of warning. She should not, but his lips were so plush, perfect, and she could have died yesterday, died without ever kissing him or anyone else ever again.

 

“I want to kiss you.”

 

“You would have me court you, then?”

 

Courting led to marriage, but it did not _**necessarily**_ end in marriage.

 

“Yes, but..”

 

She never finished. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her breathless, swung her up and into his arms as if she were weightless and carried her through a series of doors to lay her in his bed then quickly joined her and continued kissing her. Just kissing, but such _**skilled**_ kissing, and his hands stroked her ears, her neck, seemed to find every spot that aroused her and even turned areas she had never thought erotic into sources of pleasure. Shoulders, she got it about shoulders when his hands slipped under her robe and into her tunic to caress them teasingly as he tasted her mouth. She wanted him to slip her tunic off, to touch her breasts and so much more, but he did not. He simply kissed her and it was so good, her hands in his hair, his strong arms around her.

 

He paused and looked down at her, brushed the hair back from her face, traced her features as if he were memorizing them.

 

“So beautiful,” he whispered, then leaned in to kiss her again, this time more gently, tenderly, lovingly. Different, and it sent a shiver of delight and fear through her. Passion she knew, but this felt rather more like what she imagined love to be. Might he love her? No, he had offered marriage without love, no mention of love at all. This was just a different sort of passion. Passion she could resist, but if he _**loved**_ her? Not sure. No one had ever loved her, not romantically. Wanted her, wanted alliance with her, wanted her power or wealth, always they wanted what _**they**_ wanted. He had been the same, but this felt different.

 

He kissed along her neck and then he sucked on the back of her neck and she could no longer thing at all, it felt so good, especially as he stroked the tips of her ears at the same time and it was electrifying, she could no longer think at all, and so she did the same to him, stroked up his ears and then to the tip, stroked it gently and he bucked against her, pulled her closer and kissed her mouth savagely, hungrily. He pulled back, stood and removed his robe, pulled off his boots, then removed his tunic and shirt leaving only his trousers. Perfection. His lean frame, muscular, strong, the muscles moving under the skin as he sat again and leaned towards her, his blue eyes dark with some strong emotion. Probably just desire. Not love, he could not love her yet, he barely knew her.

 

“Come here, if you will,” he said huskily.

 

She sat up, laid her hands on his bare chest and expected him to begin to remove her clothes. But he did not. He simply kissed her neck and carded his hands through her hair, then lay down on the bed to look up at her with a smile, his silver hair pooling around him. She felt something tight and fearful relax inside her—he was letting her set the pace this time. But it was more. He seemed content to simply have her here with him. And how could she resist him, so pale and perfect?

 


	19. A Possible Way Home

Thranduil watched her, watched the thoughts flit across her face. She was again easy to read and he saw when the fear of him left her and she relaxed. Good. He wanted her willing, and thought that temptation might be the better course. Some, many in fact, had preferred him aggressive in his courting but few of them were as innocent as her. He had misjudged her in their first encounter, assumed that the permissive rules of her realm meant she was more experienced, had overwhelmed and frightened her. He would not make the same mistake twice. Now that he had her willing and relaxed in his chambers, he would allow her to take her own time. She wanted him, her eyes roved him hungrily, and he knew the trap well baited. And he was genuinely in no hurry with her. Yes, he ached for her, to be one with her, but he was happy simply to be with her and for the barriers between them to be gone. He'd feared his chance lost, and she gave him another. He would now carefully heed the healer's advice and _**be patient, be kind, be gentle**_ even as a lover.

 

She leaned over and kissed him tenderly, cupping the back of his head as she pressed her lips to his. Her dark hair fanned over him and he was full of the scent of her, the feel of her silken hair over his bare chest. Tentative, light caresses, a simple gentle kiss--she seemed unsure of herself. If only she knew what her slightest touch did to him, how she had soothed and aroused him earlier with her innocent comfort. Certain now that he'd mistaken her raw sensuality for experience, he wondered just how innocent she might be? He thought to take the lead again, but then she slipped her tongue into his mouth as she stroked along his ears and he lost himself in her.

 

Laid upon his breast, she broke the kiss and gazed down at him thoughtfully, stroked his hair from his brow and petted him lovingly. Yes, he rather thought it _**was**_ loving, and her expression was more than desire—it was tender, and she saw him. Him. Not his position or wealth--she had not been shy to express how little she cared for those. His heart sped as he thought that here might be one who might love him for himself, and one strong, gentle, kind, one fair of heart and form. Might he be so lucky? Might the Valar favor him with a companion to walk _**with**_ him? Perhaps. If he were patient and wise, perhaps.

 

She stood, removed her robe and laid it over a chair, then pulled her tunic over her head leaving the sleeveless linen undershirt, and removed her boots. The shirt did little to hide her charms, he could see the outline of her hard nipples under it, the curve of her breasts, and he wanted to tear it off her, peel off her leggings, have her naked and crying out as he pleased her. Patience. Let her invite him, let her desire build. He sat up on his elbows and saw her eyes follow the ripple of muscles under his skin, her pupils dilating with desire. Yes, she wanted him. He was curious to see what she would do if he continued to allow her the lead. He had felt the desire of many females and no few males of both Men and Elves, had been amused at it often and annoyed at it occasionally. Desire was a useful thing in negotiation, and he was well able to use his physical attractiveness to beguile or intimidate when it suited him, though before her he had felt none in return since the early days with his former wife. Still, he had not lost the skill to tempt another, to cause another to act foolishly and against their own interest. He would see how she responded to his temptation—he had no idea what to expect from her and found the possibility of surprise thrilling.

 

The fire illuminated her from behind as she turned and joined him again on the bed, her night-black hair shining with hints of red as it fell over her pale shoulders. Her eyes seemed almost to glow as she gazed at him, licked her lips as if he were a particularly tasty looking sweet, and then she laid her hand low on his belly and he felt his desire burn that much brighter. She was so close to where he ached to feel her touch, sweet torture as she explored him, her soft hands trailing over the ridges in his stomach, seeming to enjoy watching his muscles move under the skin at her touch. Was this her first time exploring a male? It pleased him to think so, and she seemed so enthralled by him he rather thought it so.

 

She leaned over to kiss around his navel, her hair falling over his chest then trailing up as she kissed and licked, nipped and drove him near insane with teasing him. He arched and groaned with the ache to rise up and do the same to her. Then she circled his nipple with the tip of her tongue, flicked it and sucked it much as he had done to her in the past and he arched off the bed and moaned in surprised pleasure. A quick study indeed, yes, he ached with desire for her.

 

Paused and looked up at him, “Do you, is this good?”

 

He laughed, surprised, “Yes, yes, quite good. _**Very**_ good, indeed.”

 

A twinkle of mischief, “Well, as long as my king is pleased.”

 

He sat up and pulled her into his arms, kissed her, “I am not king here, only Thranduil.”

 

She looked skeptical, “I'm pretty sure you are always king, but I get what you mean.”

 

He stroked his hands through her hair, “I would not have you here as subject, not in my bed or my lands. I release you from your vow of service.” He leaned in to kiss her astonished face, then whispered in her ear, “Stay. I would have you stay with me of your own free will.”

 

“I still want to help, there's a lot more people to heal and I still want to use the library,” her voice sounded stunned, as if she had no idea what to say.

 

He smiled, then replied,“Of course. All will remain as it is now, as much as you wish it. But I will ask your aid and you may refuse me should you wish to—you are free. I ask only that you give me notice if you desire to depart so I may assure myself of your safety, but it is a request. I will notify all that you may come and go as you please, a friend to the realm but not my subject.” He kissed her gently, “I would have you with me as my equal.”

 

“Ok, I'll stay. I want to be here,” she nodded, then smiled.

 

So quick, so easy, and he rather thought she would not flee him after all. A vast sense of relief filled him, and gratitude. He thought to reply, but then she moved to straddle him and he sucked in air to feel her move on him, back and forth, as if she were riding him.

 

“Is this good? I've heard...”

 

“Yes, yes...” he moaned as she swiveled her hips on him. If she kept this up he'd spill in his pants as a youth.

 

She smiled, leaned over and whispered in his ear, as if it were a secret, “I _**want**_ to please you. Not, not intercourse, but, I want to bring you pleasure. I want to _**see**_ your pleasure,” then she licked up the edge of his ear and bit the tip lightly and he jerked in his pants, close now, surprised at how close he was so quickly.

 

With a smile, she sat back and trailed her hand down his abdomen to the lacing on his trousers. “May I?”

 

“Yes.” By the Valar, yes.

 

Bit by bit she unlaced him, her expression fascinated. Finally, she freed him from his pants and took him in hand, stroked him lightly up and down. Such pleasure, to see her hand on him, to feel her touch, and she seemed pleased by the visible evidence of her effect on him.

 

“I've never done this before,” she said softly, “I didn't really want to before you.”

 

He was desperate for her to continue, but he sat up and cupped her face, kissed her and said, “And you need not now. I wish for nothing more than your pleasure...”

 

She gripped him more tightly and stroked down and the words died on his lips as he could, for that moment, do nothing but _**feel.**_ So long, it had been so long, and she was so obviously enjoying her effect on him, watching his face avidly as she stroked him, looking to see how he liked it, how fast, tight, and she was quick, a quick learner, and seeing himself in her small hand, her watching him hungrily, he would not be able to hold back, and yet he would, he _**would.**_

 

She began to do some twisting thing with her hand and he held back through sheer force of will, “Zaile, much more and I will not be able to restrain myself.”

 

“Don't. I want to see you. I want to please you,” she looked up from where she was watching him, smiled then leaned over as if to whisper in his ear. Instead, she licked up it as she stroked up, then sucked on the tip as she palmed the head, and back down his ear on the down stroke, then up to lightly bite the tip until he came uncontrollably, a cry of pleasure on his lips as she wrung him dry, her soft hand stroking him through his orgasm and beyond, so much pleasure from one so innocent, he felt out of control, euphoric, his whole body filled with pleasure.

 

He came back to himself, looked at her to see her smugly watching him, looking so pleased with herself he could not but smile. He reached for a linen cloth and wiped his abdomen, then stood and discarded his trousers. He leaned over her and purred, “Now, my lady, there is the matter of your pleasure to attend to. Come here.”

 

She smiled teasingly, then made as if to flee the other side of the bed. He leapt over it and caught her in his arms as she laughed, turned her to face him. “I would be a poor host were I not to reciprocate. And my lady has expressed a preference for equality, so surely she would extend this to her own pleasure?”

 

“Yes, but not...”

 

“Only pleasure. No more. I will do no more than please you thoroughly, if you allow it.”

 

“What will you do? Touch me? Like before?”

 

“Yes, and more.”

 

“More?”

 

“Let me show you.”

 

“But not...”

 

“No. Entrust yourself to me.”

 

A pause. “I trust you.”

 

“Excellent.”

 

* * *

 

Watching him come, seeing him raw, unguarded, his mouth parted as he moaned in pleasure, she doubted she'd _**ever**_ forget that. Before it had seemed rather gross, the idea of it, seeing it, but with him she'd felt powerful, exhilarated, and it had been so damned cool to see his pleasure and know she had control over it, to see the exact moment he unraveled for her. She wanted to explore him _**more,**_ figure him out completely, all the many things she'd heard of in a coven full of sex-hungry witches, she wanted to try it all with him.

 

He might be her mate. If she had one. Her fey picked, sort of, but witches got a fated mate. Oh, she'd enjoyed kissing and making out before this, but anything more had felt strangely wrong for her. Her grandmother and father took it as a sign that she was more like an elf in this respect, and was yet too young to feel such desires fully. Her mother thought she might have some combination of elf and witch magic, and that the fullness of desire might be limited to her mate. Both were plausible, even in this situation, as she might have just finally fully matured. Or he might be her mate.

 

If he was, that would sure explain a lot about his behavior. Her fey, especially the old ones, took their time getting to know a potential mate. Centuries, even. Even after they decided they had the right one, still there was typically a one year betrothal period. The pace was _**glacial.**_

 

Unless another in the Lore recognized them as their mate, or they met a Lorean _**they**_ recognized. Then, a fire sparked in them and they were much like any other Lorean with a mate—possessive, protective, filled with desire, willing to go to any lengths to have their mate, passionate and savage in a way the old ones rarely were in her experience. Certainly not the more decorous and refined pace of typical relationships among her fey. Like him, basically.

 

The speed of his declaration, and his intensity concerned her. If he were not her mate...but then he seemed passionate in many things. Still, a doubt gnawed her—what if she had enchanted him with her dance? She had read about such things, but it was a dark spell, an intentional spell, and she had not done any of the steps of it, had not flung her magic towards him with such intention. And even now, he spoke no words of love to her. It seemed rather he found her attractive, amusing, and useful and thus sought alliance. Yes, probably that was what it was—he saw advantage and found her appealing enough.

 

What did she want? She really wanted to fuck him and really wanted to talk to her family before she did it. She'd never felt such an intensity of desire, so much. If he was her mate, it would all work out. Probably. It usually did. Ok, sometimes it didn't. But if she tied herself physically to one who did not love her? Certain disaster, and forever. She would _**have**_ to wait. Be certain. And that would take time and _**lots**_ of self-control.

 

Especially with the way he was looking at her now, like he would eat her. Pants on. Keep the pants on. He was naked, so she could _**not**_ be. Pants stay on. He'd caught her and convinced her to let him please her, and she ached for him, wanted to feel his hands on her, all over her. Sweet Hecate, he was kissing down her neck now, cupping her breasts and stroking her nipples through the thin shirt, whispering how he'd have _**my name on your sweet lips this night.**_

 

He pulled her back into the bed and rolled over until he was on top of her, straddling her, holding her arms above her head with one hand as he loomed over her smirking. His other hand was poised at the neck of her top.

 

“Let me see you.”

 

It was a demand, the demand of a king and a lover, and she wanted him to see her. She arched against him and feigned struggling as a slow smirk spread across his face.

 

“You are well caught. Surrender.”

 

“Maybe.”

 

“You doubt me? I will have you beg to feel my touch on your bare skin.”

 

At that, he did exactly as he claimed. Kissing her, licking her, touching her through her top until she was insane with the need for more stimulation, not enough through the cloth, his touch a slow cruel tease filling her with hunger.

 

“Please, I'll take it off. Please.”

 

“Mmmm...” he licked the edge of her ear, the rumble of his voice a straight line to her clitoris, “will you?”

 

“Please, please,” nothing but incoherent begging now.

 

“What would you have of me?”

 

“Touch me, please, please touch me.”

 

He sat up and ripped her shirt off in one swipe, the thin linen giving way with a satisfying rip. Then his eyes drank her in as his hands moved to her hips to remove her leggings, and _**how**_ she did and did not want him to. His hand stilled, and he looked at her, then smiled.

 

“Not yet, then. As you wish, my lady.”

 

“Please touch me. As you did before, please.” Gods, how she needed him.

 

“With pleasure. My lady should never need for anything.”

 

She watched as he slid his hand into her pants, all but crying as she felt him touch her where she needed him so _**badly.**_ Threw her head back as she came almost immediately, his face inches from hers as he watched her avidly. He stroked her though her orgasm then past it into another, dipped his head and sucked and nipped at her breasts through another, and kissed up her body to kiss her savagely, him hard against her belly again as he took her though orgasm after orgasm until she lost everything but him, out of control, he was in complete control of her, and finally she felt him shudder with her and spill against her belly as came again, this time with her.

 

He reached and carefully wiped her, checked to ensure she was well-- and she was _**more**_ than well-- then took her in his arms. Looking at her with wonder and tenderness, he kissed her gently, lovingly, more about connection than passion, as she came down from such pleasure, unimaginable.

 

“That, that was, I had no idea. Wow. Just wow.”

 

He laughed, and said, “For me as well. Never have I spilled from naught but a kiss and the sounds of another's pleasure, loud though they may have been.”

 

“Not that loud, and no louder than your earlier cries.”

 

“Shall we test it? Compare our cries? This is a challenge I would gladly accept, my lady.”

 

“Tomorrow, please. I am positively boneless with satisfaction. I don't know how I'll even be able to make the short walk to my chambers let alone go another round with you.”

 

Laughing, he laid down with her in his arms, held her to him and said, “Sleep with me this night then, stay.”

 

“I doubt I'll get much sleep if I do. Besides, you don't need near the sleep I do, and yours is different from mine, more like a kind of meditation.

 

“Nay, I will trouble you not. And I am in need of rest myself after our pleasure. Stay.”

 

“Won't, I mean, is it ok?”

 

“Yes, as we are courting none will think ill. Truly. And it is unlikely any will hear of it—my personal guard are discreet.”

 

She yawned again, then seemed to melt against him and sighed, “You _**are**_ warm, and you have really nice pillows on this bed.”

 

“So you stay for my pillows, then?”

 

“Yep. And the body heat.”

 

He laughed again, and she thought he sounded so very young in that moment, carefree and happy.

 

“Sleep well, Zaile,” he pulled the coverlet over them both and settled her against his chest, stroking her hair idly, the other arm around her and his hand resting on her hip. Right as she was at the edge of sleep he murmured, “I am extremely fond of you, my lady.”

 

“I like you too,” she replied softly, “a lot. Like a whole lot. More than I've ever liked anyone.”

 

She fell asleep to his chuckle.

 

* * *

 

 

The next week passed swiftly, the depths of winter beginning to show the slightest hints of warming—the snow slightly less deep, the wind marginally less biting. Each day Zaile went to the halls of healing and continued to restore first the injured and then those with old injuries that were previously thought beyond mending. Her fame and favor with his people grew as word of her skill, kindness, and humility spread. Some still disapproved of her—an outsider of uncertain birth with strange magic—but overall his people were glad of her help and glad to see his own quiet joy. He thought that at the end of the period of courting that she would be well accepted as queen, assuming he might convince her to become such. She was fond of his realm and his people, cared deeply about them though he suspected she would care as much for any good folk.

 

Each day, after the halls of healing, she repaired to the library to study. And each night she slept in his arms as he allowed her to take her maddeningly slow time with him, such pleasure and temptation, passion and innocence. He thought she held back out of fear of making a commitment with her body she did not yet match with her heart, but each night she edged slightly closer to being fully his. He could be patient. And she was clearly happy with him, her face open and joyful, their conversation again free and easy.

 

Though too often did she mention the librarian, Celebrimdal, for his liking. Celebrimdal was helpful. Celebrimdal was knowledgeable. Celebrimdal found this book or that bit of magic. Celebrimdal was her _**friend.**_ Thranduil made certain to take his meals with her after Celebrimdal accompanied her to a private lunch twice in a row, an action which sparked some slight speculation. He was certain if he mentioned it to her that she would get that puzzled look on her face and treat him to another discussion of how it was, “no big deal,” in her realm. And, perhaps, it was simply Celebrimdal considering the well being of a fellow Noldor, if Noldor she was. Still, better to remove opportunity and keep a watchful eye over the librarian via his guards. She seemed not to notice the guards in the library, but the bold Noldor commented on, “how curious the guard has been of late regarding the library. It is always a pleasure to serve my fellows in their intellectual pursuits. The Lady Zaile is one such, always a pleasure to assist her in her many interests. Such a pleasure, indeed. Her mind is exceptional, even for one of the Noldor.”

 

On the face of it, merely a compliment and a tiresome assertion of Noldor superiority. But he could not disabuse himself of the feeling the underlying interest was something more than imagined kinship.That one so lowly should attempt to thwart him, it was laughable. And yet it was clear that Zaile enjoyed the company of the male, a fact he did not favor at all. Though she favored Badhor as well, and favored him far beyond the Noldor, and Lirael likely most of all. It was not romantic interest, she looked at the Noldor not as she did himself, but still he did not like it.

 

He stood and set aside the parchment half written, tidied his desk somewhat. He would fetch her for dinner early and broach beginning training with her. She seemed fully recovered and her work in the healing halls was much reduced. To be sure, there were those with old injuries that arrived as the weather permitted, but most of those close enough to easily travel in winter had done so already. He little liked the thought of more library hours and she needed training. He would take the measure of her abilities and hopefully they might be of use in routing the Blue Mountains of fell things. One more week before the council met again to finalize their strategy to secure his lands. He would not risk her, but neither would he refuse her aid if it might be given safely.

 

He sauntered through the halls, paused to greet his subjects from time to time, peaceful, more at ease than he had felt in many a year. Simply holding her, the pleasant animal experience of another warm and breathing in his arms, he was surprised how it eased him even without the bonding. She fit into him, was his, and he hers. His people here in the halls felt more at ease as well, seemed to feel the same sense of hope and lightness as him, as if the darkness had somewhat retreated. Often he heard laughter ring through the halls, and singing. It was a joy to him and he thought it likely his own more hopeful mood had spread to his subjects.

 

He entered the library and saw Badhor's frown, then saw the source of the frown—Celebrimdal stood leaning over Zaile with his hand on her shoulder, fingers spread and touching her bare skin in places, her robe cast aside over a chair as they debated over some point of magic.

 

“Remove your hand from her. She does not know the meaning of such touch, but you assuredly do,” he kept his voice level for her sake, yet he was furious that another would touch her so intimately. A deep cold killing rage filled him followed by the clarity and awareness he acquired prior to battle. It disturbed him how ready he was to kill for her affections.

 

Celebrimdal turned and stood to his full height, equal to his own, “I am a kinsman to her and _**far**_ beyond her age. Such intentions would be _**unseemly**_.” The Noldor inclined his head in respect, “I offer her only such aid as I would any other of my kin.”

 

“Render such aid at a respectful distance, Celebrimdal.”

 

“Of course. As you say, my king,” Celebrimdal bowed, then turned to Zaile, “My lady, I meant no offense.”

 

“I wasn't offended at all. I, you feel like one of my uncles, I'm not even sure...I...” she trailed off and turned to look at Thranduil with a mix of confusion, annoyance, and concern.

 

He offered her his arm and said, “Let us repair to dinner, my lady.”

 

She hesitated, then stood and took his arm. As he led her through the halls, he noticed she was not quite so light of step and her expression was concerned, but he said nothing and neither did she. When they reached the dining hall, he dismissed the servants after they set the table. Still, she said nothing. They ate in silence, but not companionable. She seemed pensive, not angry but rather withdrawn, unhappy. He could not fathom the source of this mood; was she unhappy over his chastisement of the Noldor? Perhaps his anger, did she think it directed at her? Perhaps he had again frightened her and she feared further provoking him?

 

“Zaile.”

 

She looked up at him inquiringly.

 

“My lady, tell me what troubles you.”

 

She shook her head and said, “It's nothing.”

 

“I beg of you, fear me not. I am not angry with you, only with him for touching you so intimately and in public. He knows such is not acceptable.”

 

She was quiet, sat looking down at her lap, then tears began to roll down her face silently, “I hate to cry,” she said in annoyance, as if to herself.

 

He reached to hold her hand, then thought better of it, “I do not favor your tears myself, but pray tell me the reason for them.”

 

“It's so different here. From home. Some things are the same, or they look the same, but the culture, how people act and what's right and wrong, it's different. Not completely different, a lot of things are the same, but I think I've got it and then I do something and it means some huge thing here and I had no idea.”

 

“Ah. You will grow used to our ways, Zaile. I meant not to disturb you this eve.”

 

“It's not just tonight. It's, Thranduil, I miss home and I don't know when or if I'll _**ever**_ be able to go home.”

 

He knew not what to say to that. That she longed for home disturbed him, displeased him, but it did not surprise him. Again, he repeated to himself the healer's advice— _ **patient, kind, gentle**_. “How might I help you?”

 

She looked at him again, “I just, Thranduil some of your people are none too happy about you courting me. I miss home because there I could just be _**me**_. I fit there and here I just keep messing up,” she paused, “Did you think Celebrindal was hitting on me? He really wasn't, he's just, he reminds me of my full elf relatives, the old ones.”

 

“Your relatives are of the Noldor then?” He'd suspected it, but had hoped it might not be so.

 

“I don't know. They are the Ettuli. Our history books say little about Arda, nothing about Valinor. But he reminds me of home for some reason.”

 

“And I do not.”

 

“What, Thranduil, seriously, I have no interest in him, and I really don't thing he...”

 

“You are wrong. I know not the source of his interest, but that it is there is unmistakable. Badhor, others have seen it as well as I.”

 

“Do you think I..”

 

“I do not. He preys upon your naivety. You are too trusting.”

 

“He's been nothing but kind and helpful.”

 

“I know not his purpose, but I assure you he has one. I do not trust him.”

 

“I think he just thinks of me as family, and is curious about elves in my world.”

 

Thranduil stood, crossed his arms and faced the fire brooding, “Perhaps. Who among my people has made you feel unwelcome?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“You say my people are displeased with my courting you. Of whom do you speak?”

 

“No one has said anything to me, it's not like that. It's just sometimes I feel it. The room get quiet when I walk in, the looks I get, I just know,” she looked down, seemed to hunch in her chair, “sometimes you get that look too. You had it tonight.”

 

He turned to her, surprised. Did she not know his feelings for her? Yes, her ways were different, sometimes shockingly so, but she was never boring, and that was one of her most compelling charms. “Zaile, I favor you above all others, save my son. Can you not see that?”

 

“I don't know how to explain it to you. I think I'm just homesick. I miss my family so much. I've never been gone from home so long; I'd always just portal home for a quick visit no matter where I was. They must be sick with worry, but I'm afraid to open another portal and I haven't found any magic yet to counter the the spell, or even which spell he used to trap me here.”

 

He walked to where she sat, knelt beside her and brought her into his arms where she leaned against his chest and cried. He thought to tell her it would be all right, that she would learn to open the portal again, that her family would find her eventually but he knew so little of her magic and he refused to offer her false comfort. So he held her while she cried and, after her tears slowed, led her to bed. He could not repair this, but he could offer distraction from her woes.

 

He helped her from her robe and over gown until there was only the thin shift, the firelight shining and revealing hints of her form to him. He removed his own tunic and changed into linen night clothes, then had her sit while he brushed out her hair. He loved the silky blackness of it, like spun night sky, and each night he pleased them both by brushing it. She calmed under his hands, heaved a great sigh and relaxed. So young, he thought, so very very young and this her first time truly away from her family. It explained much about her behavior, and the sorrow he sometimes detected. He was of two minds regarding assisting her. If he taught her better control, she might be able to open a portal and leave. He thought it very likely she would return, but not yet certain.

 

And yet, he preferred her to come to him freely, to stay with him freely. He needs must take her measure anyway, and he could decide then how much he would teach her and how far he would be willing to assist her in opening a portal to leave him, however temporary.

 

“Zaile, I will train with you on the morrow. Perhaps this will aid you in your quest to return.”

 

She took his hand, stood and looked up at him, “Thank you.”

 

He inclined his head, “There is little I would not do for you.”

 

Suddenly she embraced him, hugging him tightly, “I will come back to you. If I learn to open the portal, I promise I will come back.”

 

“You will teach me how as well. If you do not return, I will come and fetch you.”

 

She laughed, then smiled up at him, “You would, wouldn't you? I'm not sure my magic will work for you, but I'll try.”

 

An idea occurred to him, “Might it be the type of magic used as opposed to you that is the problem with this portal?”

 

“What do you mean?”

 

“If you used your elven magic, as you say you do for healing, might this sorcerer's spell fail to recognize and punish it?”

 

She thought, then smiled, “You are a damned genius. Maybe. It's worth a try, though my elven magic is weak.”

 

“A careful try after some practice and discussion.”

 

“Sure, so practice tomorrow then.” She smiled brightly and then said, “Thank you.”

 

“You have thanked me a great deal this eve, Zaile.”

 

Laughing, “I know you a little now. You're helping me to find a way home when you want nothing more than to keep me here to yourself. So, yes, thank you.”

 

He swung her up into his arms and said, “I would have you here willingly. And I have already mentioned fetching you should you be gone overlong.”

 

“After practice, do you have a forge here? Would you take me there?”

 

“Yes, though most of my people have little interest in working with metal. What might be your need, my lady?”

 

“I, I just want to see it.”

 

“Indeed?” She was up to something. Well, his guard would inform him of her actions. “Then I will take you there on the morrow as you wish. Now, let me kiss you, sweet.”

 

“With pleasure, my lord.”

 


	20. A Small Deception

Zaile awoke to find Thranduil already bathed, dressed, and at work in his study. It was...odd...to awaken in his great bed alone, to hear his deep voice call her to breakfast and rue that he had no time to, as he put it, “tarry with you this morn.” Honestly, it was a bit disappointing to awake to find him gone, and for him to seem, well, so normal about the whole thing, as if it were no big deal. It certainly had been to her, and she'd expected something, something different. Still, after breakfast, he'd kissed her lingeringly and that had made her feel a bit better. Then he reminded her that they would train today late in the afternoon, but made no mention of dinner, and she felt unsure again. They usually had dinner, but then he usually asked her to dinner every day. Perhaps something happened in the night to distract him, he certainly seemed if not distant then preoccupied. Last night had been special, her first for a couple of things, and this morning had felt disappointingly ordinary, like he just took it for granted or it hadn't been special to him.

 

He did escort her to her quarters. Walked with her inside and kissed her again before carding his hand through her hair and bidding her _**good day, my lady.**_ She bathed, dismissed her feelings as silly, but yet... it _**bothered**_ her. It seemed as if because he'd done this before before, not with her but before, that it was somehow not as special to him as to her. It made sense. He'd probably been married for longer than she'd been alive, and she was not the first for him to court—he'd spoke of courting others before he married. That was it. She was jealous of the fact that what had been her first had for him been one of many, probably nothing special. She'd thought to awake in his arms as he held her and kissed her, cherished her, and had instead awoke to find him engaged in _**paperwork**_. Even if it hadn't been special for him, he should have known that it would be special for her. Or should he? Was she right to expect that?

 

He was king, and so his duties came first. So why did she feel so disappointed, as if he had somehow either not considered her needs or ignored them? Silly, she was being silly. She'd take a good bath and that would help her wake up and be more rational. After she bathed, she selected a tunic and leggings suitable for a day that would include training and headed to the library. Lileal was still recovering, her body hale but her fea still weak, though she thought to be back at Zaile's side soon. She missed her friend and wished she could speak privately with her about her experiences with Thranduil. Maybe this morning was the norm for these elves. Most of all, she wished that she could talk to her family about Thranduil.

 

Zaile slid quietly into the empty library—it was still quite early--and felt a certain nervousness after Thranduil's outburst yesterday. Would Celebrimdal be different now? She hoped not. He was kind and she didn't think he was at all interested in her romantically. He felt very much like one of her older relatives—formal, patient, highly intellectual, and occasionally somewhat condescendingly amused by what he clearly considered her youthful foolishness. She needed his help too. As the most experienced librarian, he was the one who could best assist her in finding the full breadth of knowledge available. She hoped to return to her studies in magic as well as her inquiry into her family's history now that the healing halls were largely empty. Tomorrow might bring elves with old injuries as they traveled in from farther settlements, but today the head healer, Celebredom, had sent word that there was nothing requiring her.

 

She was thrilled to get back to learning about her family. Last time, she'd stumbled on a genealogy book detailing the families of the three ambassadors to Valinor, Ingwe, Finwe, and Olwe, through the end of the first age. She found her grandmother and then her cousin the king. At that point she knew for certain which branch of the elves she belonged to--Noldor, she was of the Noldor. She'd found a few of the other older elves in the other accounts too, though none of the rest were royalty just warriors or healers, and all were Noldor. It seemed likely the Ettuli were either all Noldor or mostly Noldor. That was cool. The Noldor were great scholars, craftsmen, taught by the Valar Aule. Feanor was a jewelsmith like her even! She wondered how far she could take her magic, and what sort of magic he used to make his creations. He was pretty young when he started making too. Last she read he'd captured the light of the Two Trees into something called a Silmaril. Though some Vala called Melkor was apparently trying to stir up drama between the Valar and the Noldor.

 

Not much info on her grandmother, just a basic mention of her birth. Same with Maglor, but maybe there was more later. It had been cool to read about her family, to start to get some of the details of their former lives. Reading about the Great Journey to Valinor had certainly been interesting. She could definitely see why the elves were nervous, but also who could resist the call of what sounded a lot like near gods, or like minor gods under one major one? She wondered if she could go to Valinor, if the Valar would allow it given she was only ¼ elf? She still had a hard time believing Valinor was exactly how it was described and wondered if the writer was making some shit up. Plus, why would the elves ever leave a place that sounded frankly perfect? Each time she got lost in reading, thought to ask her grandmother about what it was really like and realized she couldn't, homesickness filled her to overflowing.

 

Maybe a break from family history was a good idea today, especially since Thranduil had offered the hope of opening a portal. Magic today, family tomorrow. With luck maybe, such a heartfelt maybe, she might see them today. She opened her laptop and began to read and take notes.

 

“Good morning, Zaile, you are here quite early this day. Am I to believe the halls of healing are finally empty?”

 

She looked up and smiled to see Celebrimdal the same as always, dark haired, elegantly but simply attired in shades of brown to match his brown eyes and dark hair, and smiling warmly. “Good morning, Celebrimdal. Yes, it looks like they won't need me unless someone with an old injury makes it in. Spring, after the thaw, I will be busy again, but for now I can spend my time learning.”

 

He nodded, “Excellent, child. It would be my pleasure to assist you.”

 

She continued reading the images of the sorcerer's spellbook. This was extremely advanced work, much of it quite dark in nature. Though his reputation was neutral, the book revealed that he had more than a passing interest in magic most would class as destructive at best. Margin notes indicated that he was especially fond of taking a minor beneficial spell and altering it to something dark and fatal. For combat, sure, she could see the benefits of that. But his notes revealed a _**relish**_ at tricking others that seemed far beyond survival. He seemed to really enjoy the idea of a person thinking they would be fine, even benefit, and then be surprised by injury or death. Probably the spell that trapped her here was something similar, some creative tweak to an ordinary spell. But which spell and which tweak? He was a master of spell work, and these were only a portion of his spell books. He could also have improvised the spell on the fly and gotten lucky—some spell entries were documentations of things he did off the cuff that went well. She sighed as a wave of homesickness swallowed her—it could take hundreds of years to sort through what she had and there still might be no answers in these books.

 

“Might I help, Zaile?” She heard Celebrimdal's soft baritone.

 

She looked up, sighed again, and said, “I doubt it. Not in this.”

 

“What troubles you in your studies, child?”

 

She sighed again. It seemed really unlikely he could help her, but what could it hurt, “I told you about how I can portal, how I'm stuck here, right?”

 

He nodded.

 

“So, as I read the sorcerer's spellbook I realized that it could take me hundreds of years to figure out how to counter his spell. Based on what I read, he would not use an established spell. He'd take a spell intended for a different use and change it in some minor way, something no one would ever look at and consider. Like taking an apple and poisoning it, sort of. No one fears apples, no one even considers apples, but this apple would be fatal though it looked the same as any other apple. Now imagine there are thousands of kinds of fruit he could use for this purpose, and you have no idea which one he fed you—I hardly know where to even start.”

 

“There are thousands of spells he could use to trap you here?”

 

“Sort of. So, one spell I read of was a basic laundry spell, like what I use to clean my clothes. He changed the phrasing of one part of the spell, added a line from a weight loss spell, and the spell gelled into a thing of true horror. It cleaned the clothes using the fat then muscle from the victim's body, over and over again until it cleaned them to bones. I'm probably spelled with some similar combo. It's not just one spell, it's thousands of spells in thousands of combinations I have to try to counter.”

 

She set her head down on the table, giving way to the weight of it. Self pity? Maybe. But she was so homesick.

 

A light touch to her shoulder, only on the cloth covered part, and a voice filled with sorrow, “Perhaps the Greenwood may become your home, more so than it has for me. The king courts you, might you not find a place here?”

 

“I, I might. But I am used to being able to easily travel to see those I love. I've never been parted from my family for more than a few weeks. And, I, your realm is so _**different.**_ I really wish I had their advice now, I often don't know what to do.”

 

He sat, considered her, then said, “I am 5,248 years old and know this world and this place well. Might you confide in me?”

 

She hesitated, and then her great need to talk to someone, anyone older and wiser, overwhelmed her, “The king is fond of me, wishes to marry me, but I don't think he loves me.” She paused and her voice dropped lower, “But I think I am very nearly in love with him. This terrifies me.”

 

“Why so, child?”

 

“Well, if I love him but he does not love me, I think I would be very unhappy in a marriage like that.”

 

“He is very fond of you, that is certain. You did not know him before. He is much changed.”

 

“I don't know.”

 

Celebrimdal sat back and crossed his arms on his chest, “Do you wish to marry?”

 

“I don't know. I didn't. But now I don't know.”

 

“Why not?”

 

“I feel things with him I have felt with no other.”

 

“Why do you hesitate then?”

 

“I, I think he does not feel the same. Desire, yes, but love...I don't know.”

 

Celebrimdal considered, then said, “What do you think is the difference between desire and love?”

 

“Desire is about taking, love is about giving and receiving, about balance. Two equals walking together and sharing their lives, supporting one another, knowing and accepting one another.”

 

“A valid definition. And you think the king does not love you?”

 

“He has not said it.”

 

“It is early in your courting, he may feel more that he would say at this time.”

 

“He does not see me as an equal.”

 

“Do you see yourself his equal?”

 

What an interesting question. Did she? No, definitely not. He was far older, wiser, had survived countless battles, ruled for thousands of years. No, she did not. The only area she surpassed him was in magic and even that in part relied on the phase of the moon. “No.”

 

“So, you fault him for his perception of reality?”

 

“No, just, I don't like it.”

 

Celebrimdal laughed, “That is honest, and certainly Thranduil could learn tact in his dealings. He has long been king and I imagine the role of lover suits him ill.”

 

“Oh, I think you're wrong about that,” she said, and then blushed fiercely. Celebrimdal laughed the harder for it.

 

“You are young and he old. You independent and he dominant, a king no less. Are you certain you are well suited?”

 

She thought. “I love spending time with him, talking or simply sitting together in silence, I love his company and his mind. I think if I felt he loved me, truly loved me, it would not matter. I think the rest would work out.”

 

Celebrimdal smiled then, though his eyes appeared troubled, “I hope then he comes to love you truly, all of you, and accept you as you are, all that you are, for I fear you love him already.” At that he stood, and smiled, “We shall talk more on the morrow. I see Badhor making his way towards us looking particularly grim and determined. He seems to be here in search of you.”

 

“Shit! Practice! I was supposed to be at practice thirty minutes ago!”

 

Celebrimdal laughed again, “Run, little student, I fear your teacher will take it ill that you tarried here and left him waiting,” he then bowed and made his way deeper into the library.

 

She slung her laptop etc. into her pack, shouldered it and positively sprinted to Badhor, “I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I was reading and I lost track of time.”

 

“The king is less than pleased. He will take it ill that you were delayed here especially.”

 

“Does he have to know?”

 

“He knows.”

 

“Crap. Look, it's just the library. Reading.”

 

Badhor gave her a look.

 

“You too? Celebrimdal has no interest in me, and I have none in him. He's old as hell.”

 

“The king is older than him by more than a millenia.”

 

“Well, he _**feels**_ old, like a grandpa. I can see him drinking tea before the fire and telling stories about the good old days, complaining about how young people today never listen and how they talk too loud in the library. He's an elderly _**librarian.**_ No way I'm picking grandpa librarian over Thranduil the superhot _**warrior.**_ ”

 

Badhor's lips twitched at that, clearly stifling a smile, “I will relay that to him. Perhaps it will help his mood. Allow me to enter first then follow. You will need to change into proper protective garments.”

 

She thought to tell him she didn't need them, but then considered that she might—she had no idea what practice entailed here and no desire to show off her healing ability. It was still hard to believe they were all afflicted, and if so it was simply rude to display her good fortune. Thranduil was that much more impressive having survived for so long, so much war, while being so very easy to kill. She had a feeling she was about to get her ass handed to her over and over again.

 

They arrived at the practice area and Badhor directed her to the section for elleths. She stepped into a locker room of sorts and saw the ranger whose arm she'd healed. What was her name? Arneth. The woman turned to her, then smiled in delight when she recognized her.

“Well met, Lady Zaile, I am glad to see you this day.”

 

“Hello, Arneth, how is your arm?”

 

The ranger stretched it out, laughed and said, “Present, and for that I am glad. I have but to strengthen it.”

 

“May I look at it and the other one?”

 

“Of course.”

 

Arneth peeled off her layers and Zaile examined both arms. The new one definitely had less muscle, as did her chest on that side of her body. Hmmm...it looked like she had redistributed the materials of Arneth's body to create the arm as opposed to creating it from scratch. That was fascinating and different from her own healing. She wondered if she might speed the process somehow.

 

“Have you been eating much?”

 

“Aye, as I have not since I was with child. My husband thought we were to be blessed again with another, but neither of us sensed new life nor did I invite it in.”

 

“I think I can speed up your strengthening, but you'll have to eat even more, like a lot more. It seems like from looking at you that I just redistributed muscle and bone as opposed to creating it. I guess I'm not skilled enough to do that yet.”

 

Arneth smiled, and it was kind, a motherly sort of smile on her young face, “I am no healer, but you did well enough my lady, and I thank you for it. Perhaps you will allow yourself a little praise.”

 

Zaile blushed, and said, “I still have a lot to learn.”

 

“As do we all, my lady. Come, let us get you outfitted. Now I know the source of our king's early arrival to practice and his increasingly vile mood—you were expected some time ago I warrant?”

 

“I was reading and I forgot.”

 

At that Arneth smirked, “Thranduil Oropherion has ever been impatient, even before he had millenia of being king. It is likely good for him to wait from time to time, though I doubt he would agree.”

 

“He's pretty angry, isn't he?”

 

“Yes. But he is grimly pretending to be exactly the same as always, though his foul temper is obvious to all,” Arneth said with an amused smirk. “I have not seen him so before. Perhaps when he was a youth, but not to this degree.”

 

“Angry?”

 

“Nay, I have seen him angry many times. This is quite something else,” she seemed amused.

 

Zaile cocked her head and tried to figure out Arneth's meaning, but finally she shrugged, “Well, I guess I better go deal with him. He probably getting angrier by the second.”

 

Arneth smiled, and brushed a strand of Zaile's hair behind her ear much like a mother, “You know not, do you? Well, I shall leave it to him to tell you in his time. Yes, let us get you properly dressed.”

 

Zaile had nothing to say to that cryptic utterance and allowed Arneth to see her geared up. The clothes were the same the rangers typically wore, though without any sort of armor. She stretched and crouched, spun and found them excellent.

 

“Thraduil prefers to fight with twin swords. We have many practice weapons here, my lady, if you lack your own.”

 

“I usually use magic, but not with people. That's my best weapon, that and my cat.”

 

Arneth eyed Spade, nodded, and said, “I have heard tales of your cat. Why not magic then if it is your best weapon? I assure you, you will need your best with the king.”

 

“It's only good for killing. I have less control over my warrior magic than I do anything else. Things have a tendency to explode, be crushed to dust, burnt and not because I want that to happen. I try a hold with vines, they wrap around the practice dummy with such force it explodes into chunks of wood. I don't have enough control to use it on people, not unless I have to kill.”

 

“You need focus. There are techniques for that. The king will teach you. So, then what weapon?”

 

Zaile reached into her pack and pulled forth the sword her cousin gave her. She unsheathed it and showed it to the ranger, “This is my sword.”

 

Arneth stilled, reached out her hand, “Where came you by this?”

 

“My cousin, the king, gave it to me on my sixteenth birthday. He said I was of a size to begin to learn.”

 

“Does our king know you have this blade?”

 

“He's saw it before when I unloaded my pack, but it was sheathed. Why?”

 

“Do you know the history of this blade?”

 

“No. Is it some special sword?”

 

“It is of Noldor make, and old enough to have been used in the first Kinslaying. I have seen that very blade in battle.”

 

“The Kinslaying? What's that?”

 

Now Arneth outright stared. Not a hostile stare, more assessing. After a time, she smiled sadly then said, “You truly do not know. It seems when our people left this world they chose to leave behind their history as well. A story for another time, perhaps. I shall fit you with a blade of this realm for practice. It will be good for you to try another design, a Sindar design.”

 

“That's fine by me. I'm terrible with this sword. Maybe I'll have better luck with a different design, though I doubt it.”

 

Arneth laughed, the strange mood gone, “The king is an excellent teacher, you will certainly improve.”

 

She outfitted then led Zaile to the practice area. Thranduil was fighting with Badhor, both stripped to the waist and glistening with sweat in the pale sun. Badhor was holding his own, but clearly outclassed. The king moved with an economy of motion, a singleness of focus, such perfect balance, beautifully deadly, so beautiful.

 

He glanced at her and with a deft movement disarmed Badhor, stepped away, then turned and strode toward her. His eyes flashed pale silvery blue with fury and his body was tense and predatory. Without thinking, she took a step back, then another, and then he was suddenly there, glaring down at her. Spade leapt to her shoulder and hissed at him, the necklace stirred and spat out one fat green spark, reacting to the fear that coursed through her at his anger, the remembrance of what happened last time he was this angry. His eyes were anything but detached, a storm of emotion visible in them. She stepped back another pace and he followed, another and he followed, saying nothing, the weight of his anger a storm like to break at any second.

 

Anger flared in her, a sure companion to fear for her, and as he sought to close the distance between them, quick as thought the necklace's shield sparked to life around her. It shoved him back as it spread out from her in a three foot radius. He circled her, testing the limits of the shield, and then finally seemed to calm as she glared back at him and circled along with him, always keeping her face to him.

 

“Come, dispense with your magics. Let us practice.”

 

“I'm sorry I am late. I was studying magic.”

 

He said nothing, only began to sneer and then thought better of it and sighed, “Very well. Badhor pled your case. It will not happen again else I ban you from the library, do you understand?”

 

“I will be on time,” she allowed the shield to fall and he stepped close to her, then caught her to him and growled against her ear, “I will not abide that Noldor librarian taking one moment of my time with you. I carved this time out of my duties to see you trained, but also to see _**you.**_ ”

 

Oh, _**oh.**_ He was actually jealous? She leaned back to look at him and said incredulously, “You can not be jealous of grandpa librarian, no way. All he needs is a lace shawl and some really comfortable shoes and he could win all the old ladies at the nursing home. I bet he crochets in a rocker in front of the fire and has like ten cats. He calls me _**child.**_ You can not be serious.”

 

A range of emotions raced across his face. Embarrassment, shock, then finally it settled on a wry amusement, “Let us practice then, my lady.”

 

He stepped back, then paused, “I thought you said you could not use magic in battle without fatal effect?”

 

“Defensive magic is fine. If my shield is overpowered, I just have a stronger shield. Offensive magic, I can't unless it is life or death.”

 

He nodded, “Let us spar without magic first. I would see your form and ability purely in that dimension.”

 

“Get ready to be underwhelmed. I'm a warrior _**witch,**_ but a very poor elf warrior.”

 

He smiled, “A challenge as a teacher then. I accept.”

 

But an hour later, a hour after he beat her again and again, this last time smacking her on the butt with the flat of his sword for, again, not guarding her flank she became angry enough that lightening forked across the sky and the wind picked up slightly. She clamped down on her emotions tight—it had been years since she leaked enough magic to inadvertently triggered a storm with them. But she was tired, frustrated, and felt she was making no progress at all, none, as this was simply not where her talent lay. She got that since her power waxed and waned that she would be better off learning to use other weapons, but she was just so bad at it compared to him. He was not the most patient instructor either, demanding, unrelenting, and irritated with her speed of learning.

 

His eyebrows raised at the lightening in a clear blue sky, then glanced to her, “Perhaps a break, my lady?” She could swear he seemed amused, as if he were vastly enjoying himself. She wished she had better control of her offensive powers, because she'd turn the tables if she did.

 

“Fine.”

 

He smiled and led her to a table, poured her fruit juice and offered her a bowl of fruit. She took a piece and began eating. As they ate in silence, gradually the silence became companionable and she leaned against him as they sat on the bench facing the practice grounds.

 

“For your youth, your skills are good. But no enemy will consider your youth. In battle, you would likely be slain were it not for your magic.”

 

“In battle, I would use my magic.”

 

“I would see you trained for those times you are weakened, when you have exhausted your magic,” he reached out to stroke her cheek, “You made good progress today, especially regarding your stance.”

 

“Really? I felt like I learned nothing, like I'm useless at this.”

 

He laughed, “Nay, you need but time and a willing teacher. We will practice daily and you shall see. In a century you shall be as deadly as any among my guard.”

 

“A century? So soon? Yay.”

 

“It is but a blink. The years move faster with age, Zaile.”

 

“I've heard that, but so far it feels plenty slow to me.”

 

“You speak of your family. Of how you miss them.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Then let us see if my theory may work then.”

 

They began with healing, since that was where her elven magic awoke, but soon segued into other things. First, they healed a cut together, one of the guards careless in training, and he took the lead. She could feel the well of his elven magic, and it was old, deep, and controlled, far beyond her own elven magic but certainly weaker than her witch magic except possibly at the lowest point of the moon. Still, he had complete control over what he had—the magic felt like a peaceful easily tapped pool as opposed to a the raging river inside her. It would do what he told it, and with no wasted magic, very similar to his fighting style. Both reminded her of just how much _**older**_ he was than her. It was a little weird honestly.

 

Next, he joined her as she tried to open a portal back to her rooms with her elven magic. Close portals required very little magic, but still her elven magic was simply too weak. He joined her and the portal opened like a dream. She danced all around the practice ring in utter joy as the other elves examined and then gingerly tried the portal back and forth after she declared it utterly safe and stable, requiring little to no power to maintain.

 

“I can go home!!! Home!! I'm so happy!!! It worked!!!” She danced around the practice field in joy until she saw his face. He seemed one part worried and one part angry. Oh, his face was neutral, he was trying to hide his reaction, but she could see it in the line of his mouth, the rigid way he stood, and she thought that others could see it too. Did he think she would leave him and not return?

 

His deep voice called, “Come, let us attempt a portal to your realm.”

 

In it she could hear determination and sorrow, and thought to speak to him, to reassure him, but actions spoke louder than words—he would soon know she would come back when she immediately came back. She began to cast, eager to see her family, and felt him add his power to her own. Almost the portal opened, there was almost enough power, and then she added her witch magic, using the elven magic as the focus. The second she did, the portal sputtered and then she felt the sorcerer's spell begin to attempt to siphon her power. It seemed confused by the elven power and she could feel it trying to reach her, but she wanted so badly to go home she thought to push harder and risk it.

 

“Stop, Zaile. I sense him searching for you. You must stop.”

 

She did, kneeling in the grass of the practice yard and weeping her heart out as he held and comforted her.

 

After she subsided, he tipped her head up to look at him, “Nearly it opened. I could feel it, feel how it was done. Be at peace, Zaile. With practice, we shall open it and you will return to your home.”

 

In that moment, looking into his face and realizing he was actively working to give her what she needed to be happy, but what he feared would lead to her leaving him and his own unhappiness, in that moment she opened her heart to him fully and loved him. She could see the conflict in his eyes, the turmoil, and yet he chose to help her—how could she not love him?

 

“I love you,” it just came out, without thought.

 

Something flashed through his eyes, some emotion she didn't quite recognize—maybe shock—and she thought she had misjudged his feelings for her. But then he smiled and embraced her, kissed her before all and said, “And I you. Might you consider a betrothal?”

 

“Yes. I asked where the forge was because I planned to make a ring for you, just in case. But when you tried so hard to help me to return home, I knew it, my love just became suddenly so certain. In that moment, I knew. ”

 

Again something flickered in his eyes, and he said, “I have had your ring since before you awoke, a ring made in hope that one day you might accept me. Betrothal rings are of silver here, but might your traditions differ?”

 

“It is the same with us, silver or platinum, really any white metal is acceptable for the betrothal.”

 

“How long before mine might be finished? I would that we have a feast to announce it before all.”

 

“No more than a week, probably less.”

 

“In a week my warriors and I will depart to rout the mountains of fell things. I shall proudly wear your ring into battle, my love. Upon my return, we shall have a victory feast and a betrothal feast together.”

 

“I'll go with you. I'll be at the peak of my powers then, or close to it, by the time you go into battle.”

 

He stroked her hair back from her face and smiled down at her, “My love, the moon here does not seem to affect you as the three from your one battle. I would not lose you.”

 

She cocked her head and realized he that he didn't know both how durable she was or how strong. She looked around the practice field. It was just too small, too filled with people and equipment for her to really let loose.

 

“Look, if you take me to an empty field, preferably a big one far from any habitations, I'll show you what I can do. It's too close of quarters, too many people here for me to safely show you.”

 

His eyebrows raised, and he nodded. Taking her hand he made as if to lead her from the field.

 

“Wait. I think you need to see this too.” Taking her dagger, she plunged it into her bare arm at the elbow and tore down to the wrist. With a cry, he disarmed her faster than she could see and then grabbed her wrist and watched in stunned amazement as the blood stopped and the cut simply closed in seconds.

 

“How is this possible? I felt no healing magic?”

 

“It's just part of me, not any magic I have to cast. Beheading. Some magics. Probably total immersion in lava. A god. That's about all that can kill me. A few of those orcs had magic tainted blades which would have made me really unhappy for a little while if I were already weakened, or if I was stabbed with a lot of them, but I would not die. I'm hard to kill. I'll be fine.”

 

He looked at her, assessing her, “Pain?”

 

“Oh, yes. But it doesn't last.”

 

“Then perhaps no more demonstrations. I shall take your word.”

 

“You don't want to see what else I can do?”

 

“I do not need to see you injure yourself further to prove a point.”

 

“Fair enough,” she tucked the dagger into her pack in preparation to leave.

 

“We ride out and you will show me your magic. But first a bath and fresh clothes.”

 

“Amen to that, I feel gross.”

 

He stood and offered her his hand, “Come my lady, let me escort you to your quarters.”

 

She took his hand, smiled and let him lead her through the halls. Once they entered the royal section, he grabbed her and pressed her against the wall, his firm body holding her there as he kissed her breathless, a savage possessive kiss, his body all but engulfing her smaller one as he wrapped himself around her. She felt him, his fea rise and touch hers, he would bond with her now, here, and she would let him. She loved him, she felt the certainty of it within her. She would always love him and he loved her.

 

“You belong to me, admit it,” he whispered against her ear.

 

“I do. Only you.”

 

He sighed in satisfaction and relaxed, “I would wait for the betrothal night, but should you share my bed, I fear I lack the control to resist you. This morn, as I watched you sleep, I parted from you lest I fall upon you with the new day releasing me from my vow to do naught but pleasure you.”

 

“Oh, so that was why you seemed distant.”

 

“Yes. I used work as a poor distraction from you nigh naked in my bed.”

 

She laughed, “So, no more sleepovers?”

 

He sighed, “Not until the betrothal night and then, _**then**_ it shall be our marriage bed. I shall be betrothed and wedded and bedded all in one night, should my love consent.”

 

She smiled up at him and never felt so certain of anything in her life. Her grandmother's warning that the one year betrothal was for a purpose, that it was best to know another fully before giving them one's heart and body was swallowed in the love she felt for him. He asked, and she would give.

 

“Yes, gladly.”

 

“Good. I would ask you to bathe with me but...”

 

Laughing she pushed him away, “Just another week and you can bathe me, bed me, have your way with me in whatever manner you like.”

 

“You are cruel, lady, to speak of such delights when they seem so far away,” and on that he turned and sauntered into his quarters to wash and she did the same to hers.

 

_________________________________________________________________________

 

As Thranduil bathed, he considered his choice. He could open the portal to her realm any time he pleased now as she had shown him the way. But he had not pleased. His intentions had been good, but watching her dance around the practice yard in joyful anticipation of leaving him, after her lateness due to conversation with another, he had not been pleased at all. How was he to know that her belief in his selflessness would be the thing to tip desire into love?

 

She would stay now. He saw it in her, a steadfast love. She was assuredly his. So unlike his former wife, she loved him, adored him, he could see the difference clearly. When he offered his fea to her, hers rose to meet it gladly, easily, a heady thing, full of power and light, strong, he had not realized her strength. With her he might have many children, no fear of her weakening and sickening with only one.

 

It had not been a lie. Last night he had merely suggested changing the type of magic, not offered to help. But he had. Just not as much as he could. He was under no obligation to assist her in leaving him and her assumption was her own. That she loved him for it, yes, it was uncomfortable but he bore no responsibility for her perceptions. That they were to his advantage was incidental.

 

He dismissed the concerns from his mind—regardless of how she came to love him, she loved him. They would be happy together. Smiling, he dressed quickly and went to meet her.

 

She wore the green velvet riding tunic and he was glad indeed of his choice. His. He saw it in her eyes, the way she leaned slightly toward him, subtle differences but telling ones. There was no longer any hesitation; she was open to him. His heart sung with thankfulness that he might find such a love with one so young, so pure, so powerful.

 

He held out his hand, “Come, my love, let us ride out and you will show me this power of yours.” In truth, he was deeply curious regarding her power.

 

They walked through the halls, rode out to a portion of the forest he knew to be sick with evil, the trees dead and riddled with now empty spider nests, bare branches befouled with such quantities of sickly white webbing it looked if they grew that way. If some nests were again tenanted, all the better. She could wipe this portion of the woods clean and it would be no loss.

 

They stopped, and he helped her from the elk. Spade seemed to sense the tenor of the place for she growled and let out an angry yowl that seemed a warning of sorts, her tail lashing from side to side in agitation. Zaile shivered, then knelt and placed her hands on the ground, “This is a dead place, not natural death but more like what I felt from those orc things, like they were both dead and alive at the same time.” She looked up at him, “There's nothing truly living for miles, but my warrior magic won't cleanse the corruption—it's only good for destruction.”

 

“Destroying the trees these foul things breed and hide in will allow the sun to begin to cleanse this place. That is a good start.”

 

She nodded, said, “Ok, I think I can do that, at least some of it,” and bent to take off her shoes and socks.

 

“Is that needful? I have seen you work magic in shoes before.”

 

She shook her head, seeming to become more inwardly focused. “No. But it helps me to sense the land and the creatures in it. I can send out a sort of signal to living creatures to flee. I don't like to kill unless I have no choice.”

 

Spade shrunk down and leapt into her arms. She dug her toes into the ground and as he watched her eyes flashed silver, then a pale luminous green threaded with silver. The necklace began to spin upon it's chain and a protective dome covered both of them and his elk. The wind began to pick up, an eerie howling began as the sky darkened into a strange black green color. Lightening branched and then began to strike the ground over and over. Fire began all around them and spread as the wind whipped it into a frenzy.

 

“Zaile! The fire..”

 

In a soft, almost sleepy voice she said, “It is mine. It will burn only what I say burns.”

 

Thranduil watched as the fire rushed over them, then the sky opened and black funnels dropped to rush across the earth, their bottom halves filled with fire.

 

“Another resists me, but he is weak. Huh. Human. That's a human with magic. Weird. Not human. A dead thing. Ok, that explains the magic. He is linked to another. Almost I can see the other.”

 

“Look on him not! Zaile, I beg of you, turn your mind away.”

 

“He's singing. It's so beautiful. How can he be beautiful when he makes dead things? That doesn't seem right. Almost, I can see him.”

 

Thranduil grabbed her right as Spade bit deeply, viciously into her shoulder, claws dug into her flesh. Her eyes cleared and she shivered as the storm raged around them.

 

“Are you harmed? Did he see you?”

 

“No, and no. Though if the servant knows, the master will soon. Let me finish.”

 

He and Spade both growled at that, but she lost herself again in the magic, eyes flashing silver-green again. He watched her face, watched Spade as the little cat seemed to be a sort of protector when she was lost in her magic. Spade was calm, curled again in her mistress's arms, but vigilant—her eyes never left Zaile's face. Thranduil looked away and observed as the funnels tore up the soil, reducing the burnt trees to nothing, and the fire burned out so quickly it could only be magic. Then the sky opened and rain fell in torrents, extinguishing every spark, a sea of churning mud as the funnels roiled the land and finally withdrew into the clouds.

 

The clouds faded to nothing and the last rays of day illuminated miles of cleared forest in every direction, a jagged edge where she had excised only the dead and left the healthy trees. How were they to traverse that sea of mud though? He did not relish leading the elk through it and it would likely be unsafe even then. But as he watched, a blanket of pale green grass dotted with small white flowers spread outward from the dome, and then meadow grasses, a field of them, waved in the wind as the dome winked out and she fell to her knees then sat back on the grass.

 

As she sat on the grass looking up at him, he looked upon her, so deceptively helpless looking, so beautiful. And this was not the peak of her power. After a moment, she held her hand out to him and said, “Please. I am exhausted.” And clearly she was, her face pale and tired.

 

“I would that you had not exhausted yourself yet again.”

 

“I couldn't stop. It just felt so good to clean it out, like cleaning a particularly filthy piece of jewelry and seeing it beautiful and shining again,” she stroked the grass, “This is so much better.”

 

“Indeed, and I thank you for it.”

 

He pulled her to her feet, then swung her up onto the elk and mounted beside her. In a moment, she was asleep. Again she had pushed herself to exhaustion, but he could not be anything but grateful for the clearing of the land. It looked to be roughly three miles in every direction, a smooth field of grass in which nothing could hide. If she could clear other of these dead spots, Greenwood would begin to heal under the cleansing light of the sun.

 

They made their slow way to the halls as the sun turned the sky to fire, and he felt a sense of peace wash over him. The same peace lingered as he carried her through the halls and into his chamber. He should not have her in his bed, and yet he would not have her elsewhere in case the nightmares returned to her in her exhaustion. He would work as she slept, he had much to do.

 

Through the night she slept as one dead. Close to dawn, he joined her and she snuggled into his chest and sighed but did not wake. He relished that even in sleep she sought to be closer to him, that she loved him, not his position. He had faced the challenge of her reluctance, laid siege, and won.

 

After a time, he rose and returned to his desk. He ordered food brought to his chambers, wrote her a note, then closed the door to his bed chamber and called for his valet to assist him in dressing for council. Bathed and dressed, he considered the upcoming council, how he would recommend the inclusion of her power, the best way to include it in battle tactics. He should familiarize her with the land and the challenge of rooting the orcs from their extensive networks of caves. Her weather magic seemed useless against the orcs, though it would be far easier to manage them and their allies the spiders with no dead befouled trees as cover for them.

 

And there was another matter. In Lothlorien there was a series of ancient scrolls regarding the use of magic in forging, others regarding magic in general dating back to the early days in Beleriand. While it was tedious work to copy such texts, he rather thought Zaile might find them of interest and use. Celeborn was generous with his library and would no doubt allow the copy, and Galadriel would likely be pleased to see her kinsman Celebrimdal. That the work would remove the Noldor from Zaile's sphere of influence for many months was incidental, or so he would claim. He had sent him forth on many occasions to do such work, both in Imladris and Lothlorien. It was not unusual, though he thought the Noldor would quite know the true purpose of this trip was not entirely the pursuit of knowledge.

 

It pleased him, to thwart this budding friendship. He did not trust the Noldor, especially the ones close in age to him or older. It was not just the losses of his family, but the nature of the Noldor as a people which caused him to mistrust them. Ever a proud violent people, elves who had defied the Valar, had willingly repeatedly declared war on their own kind, the only line of elves to do so, no, he did not favor this friendship, if friendship were all the Noldor pursued. He believed her interest to be minimal, and yet she had lingered not just to read as she said but to talk with the Noldor, had forgotten her time with him in favor of time with another. He did not favor this connection and so he would sever it.

 

 


	21. Revelations and Battle

Zaile awoke feeling refreshed, but disoriented. Ah, she was in Thranduil's bed; he must have brought her here. But he, again, was gone. This time she felt no fear, no hesitation—she was certain of his love for her and his acceptance. She padded into the central chamber of his rooms and smiled to see the enormous amount of food spread before her. There was a note as well:

 

_My Love,_

 

_Should you awake before my return, I have instructed Badhor to guide you to the forges. Little would I see you distracted from that task. I have instructed the smiths and the treasury to provide you all you may need. I shall arrive to fetch you for practice ere I am finished with council._

 

_Thranduil_

 

She folded the note, stored it in her pack. Her first letter from him; the first time she read of his love. Then she sat at the table and ate speedily, ready to begin work. She had an idea for his ring, but clear in her mind was something else, a necklace forged of magic and metal that might grant him something of the protection she had. Maybe. She was yet learning but had dreamed of it last night, a sequence of magic that would take many days but once done would allow the necklace to serve as both shield and healer. She ate quickly, gave Spade the meat provided—Thranduil had remembered her companion as well—and then returned to her chambers and quickly dressed in simple close fitting tunic, pants, and boots. Slinging her pack over her back, she went out to find Badhor awaiting her up the hall next to the doors leading from the royal section.

 

“Good morning, Lady Zaile, I have been bid to guide you to the forges.”

 

“Yes, thank you.”

 

He nodded and led her out to an area close by the stables. Open air forges, hmm. Though the area was covered, it was not fully enclosed. A nearby steam for water, there the bellows for heating the furnace, anvils, a grindstone and polishing area, yes, she could work with this and if her dream proved to be correct most of the work would be done with magic anyway. Badhor presented her to a slim woman with dark hair dressed in a leather apron.

 

“Dringol, this is the Lady Zaile.”

 

Dringol seemed to size her up, then said, “Greetings Badhor, Lady Zaile. How may I assist you?”

 

“I need the use of a forge and possibly someone to assist me at times. I may need one to work the bellows when it comes time to anneal a piece.”

 

“Very well. I will assist you.”

 

“I will use magic in the process. Some of it will seem strange but...”

 

Dringol stopped her and said with some disdain, “I assure you, I am familiar with the use of magic in smithing. Be at ease.”

 

After, she led her to a forge and leaned against the wall, clearly curious as to Zaile's intention and possibly rather doubtful as to her ability. Zaile had the distinct impression Dringol feared her burning down the place. Whatever. She shrugged and began to work.

 

First, materials. She removed the pouch of starshine gems, the central element in this work. Next the pearls she had harvested, then red dragon gold, incorruptible, pure, naturally resistant to alteration once magicked and difficult as hell to work with but once spelled would hold against all but a Queen witch or a god and even then the spell might hold. It would also protect the other gems from corruption or the wear of time or inimical magic.

 

First the gems. She began by spreading them out over a linen cloth laid on the scarred oak workbench. Dull pieces of black rock, they only showed their potential in the few sections where she had chipped away the outer rock to reveal the gem inside. She felt for the ones that seemed best suited to this task, the ones that heeded the call she sent out and wanted to be a part of this work. Starshine gems were not exactly alive, but there was...something. Some awareness or life that inclined them destructive or protective magic, and they were of varying strength that was unrelated to their size. A huge gem might be best suited to ornamentation, too weak to hold all but a simple luck spell and and a tiny gem might hold the masterwork spell of a Queen. She fell into a trance and began to weave a complex spell, of polish and shaping, Made of the depth of her love for Thranduil, the life of the wood, and her own magic, it wove around the gems and both called and shaped those that answered.

 

She stumbled back, the spell finished, more a cooperation between her and the gems than her simply making them. You never knew what you would get, shape or size, when working with these gems. Some blend of the spellcaster, the purpose, the recipient, and the inclination of the gems themselves made each time a surprise. This was her second time working with the gems, but she had observed it in training videos fairly often. As she looked down, panting still with effort, she saw first the pile of unused gems—there were still quite a few left—then she saw the galaxy of stars slung across the table and gasped.

 

A multitude of small gems, each a star caught in a pure black night sky, laid against the linen cloth and seemed to glow with an inner light. In the center, a large gem, just as she had seen in her dream, a combination of the gem and the matte black stone it was typically found in made a perfect outline of the king's elk at night against the stars, the great head turned toward the viewer and the horns outlined against the star filled sky. Even the constellations were those of this realm, it was perfect, and she stroked it in thankfulness and felt a responding thrum—this gem would hold a masterwork, was eager for it.

 

It was then she realized all work had stopped and that a small crowd had gathered to watch. She hardly knew what to say, so she silently continued examining the gems, deciding how she would arrange them with the pearls until she had a clear picture that the necklace she dreamed was, indeed, more than a dream—this was exactly what she would need to make it reality. Glancing at the sun, it was already later than the last time the king had designated for them to practice, he'd probably be here soon and she didn't want him to see any of it until it was all finished. Plus, she needed to eat. She was already somewhat exhausted and he would be less than pleased at her exhausting herself and probably no less demanding in practice. She packed the pearls back in her pack, then the dragon gold, and as she began to pack up the gems Dringol spoke behind her.

 

“My lady, might I look at them first?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

The other elves stepped forward and seemed enthralled at the gems, especially the large one.

 

“The king's elk? You mean this for him?”

 

“I do. It is to be a gift.”

 

“A kingly gift, indeed. I have never seen the like.”

 

“I brought them from my own realm, they don't exist here. Do you think he will like it?”

 

The elves looked at her incredulously, then laughed. Dringol replied, “All elves love starlight and Thranduil loves treasure, especially treasure that reminds him of the stars. He will be pleased indeed.”

 

“Please don't tell him. I want it to be a surprise. Just, tell him I am working on a ring for him, nothing else.”

 

There were knowing looks exchanged at this, some happy and some neutral. Dringol spoke up and said, “We shall keep the necklace to ourselves, and ensure the king neither hears of it nor walks in upon you at work.”

 

Nods all around, with a few elves wandering back quickly to resume work. The same elves who had appeared neutral to her announcement regarding the ring. Perhaps they were simply less responsive than the other elves, more busy perhaps. Or perhaps they did not approve her courting their king. Zaile felt another stab of homesickness, then decided that she would simply work hard to win them over. There was much she could do to benefit Thranduil's people, and she would do all she could to adopt their ways as her own.

 

“Thank you for allowing me the use of your forge. With your permission, I should like to return tomorrow?”

 

“Yes, and welcome are you here,” this was said with a bit more emphasis than needed, as if the master smith was making sure all knew her welcome.

 

Zaile smiled, packed up the polished gems, then, on a whim as the smith turned to leave said, “Please, wait but a moment.” She felt among the uncut gems to see if one might feel right for the smith and one leapt to her hand, eager for the purpose. With a smile, she entered the trance and layered the gem with magic, for hammering true, the perfect heat to the fire, fortune, protection from fire and injury, molding and making, she knew these spells well as the smiths in her land all wore spelled gems, though few were as fine as starshine. She imbued some of the love she felt for this land and its people into it, and sealed it with a spell of clarity and wisdom, of seeing into the true nature of a thing. Once done, she stepped back, definitely tired now, and looked down upon the small stone. She picked it up and saw within the symbol of Aule formed of stars in a night sky.

 

She looked at the smith, who looked back with some curiosity, and handed her the gem.

 

“This is beautiful indeed, my lady. But the king is no smith that he would honor Aule.”

 

“It's yours.”

 

“Nay, my lady, such is too fine for me,” though she held it still in her hand, her eyes ever on the gem.

 

“It's yours. It wanted to be yours. You should wear it while smithing. It is spelled to guide you and protect you in your work.”

 

Dringol looked up, clasped her hands to her breast and bowed, “I thank you, my lady. I shall wear it always in remembrance of my first meeting with the Lady of the Greenwood.”

 

Zaile, cocked her head confused then realized that _**she**_ was the lady, “No, _**no,**_ look I am just Zaile. That's, like, I'm, I just wanted to thank you for your kindness and making me feel welcome. Just Zaile, I'm just Zaile.”

 

Dringol looked deeply at her then, smiled and said, “Well, just Zaile, you are welcome here indeed. May your stay be long within the Greenwood.”

 

“Indeed,” came a deep voice behind her, “it will.”

 

Thranduil, attired for practice offered her his arm.

 

“I'm so hungry. Can we eat first?”

 

“Of course. You will need your energy for what I have planned this day.”

 

And so went her days. Smithing and practice, then to bed in her own chambers. Thranduil was unusually busy as the day for the battle approached, with little time outside practice. It made waiting until the betrothal night easier, but she missed him greatly in the evenings. After the first night alone, she returned to the forge in the evenings as well. The ring was made, a silver band set with tiny starshine gems that winked and glittered. But the necklace, well, she hoped to have it ready by the battle but there was no certainty that it would be done.

 

Finally, two days before the battle, she looked upon the completed work. The dragon gold links were shades of fire and gold, the settings around the pearls and starshine gems glowed as if with an inner fire, warming and true as the love she felt for him. The necklace felt somehow complete, as if the pearls the waters of the world, the dragon gold earth and fire and sun, the starshine gems the early twilight before the Two Trees and the Sun and the Moon. And it was spelled with a weaving of protection and healing spells, a masterwork that would make him far harder to kill. It would fit well with his other jewelry too, the contours natural, hinting at branches and buds, the elements of the Greenwood combined, no link the same but still harmonious in the whole. A large chain, but still something he could wear into battle and not be vexed by it.

 

It might be perfect. She had not thought herself capable of such a work, but her love for him led her as she worked. She slept, she ate, she worked, and he was annoyed with her lack of focus in practice. But until this was finished, she could think of nothing but it, the work driving her to make it. And now it lay upon the linen complete. Finished.

 

She would bathe and to bed. In the morning she would go to the library again and resume her studies. Recently, her curiosity about her family had been matched by the curiosity of _**others**_ about her family. Some lady, Garthil, had come to the forge and tried to interrupt her work with chit chat, chit chat that seemed designed to get her to talk about her family. It was intensely annoying as she needed to hold focus in order to work and due to her need to keep the necklace secret could not begin work on it until she left. Plus, she asked questions regarding her feelings for the king, seeming to have some weird concern that she was not here willingly. So she worked on the king's ring, annoyed with the prying questions from a virtual stranger and decided stubbornly not to answer any of them.

 

Next was some lady named Tuel. She decided to try to question her right after practice when she was dirty and tired _**and**_ with the king. Thranduil shut that down. Finally, Galadas, whom she quite liked and had enjoyed many a conversation with, also seemed to be trying to subtly guide the conversation in the direction of her family, her childhood, and her home plane. Her grandmother's advice to never give a person information they sought to gain by subtlety seemed particularly apropos here and so she simply redirected the conversation and refused to answer any questions directly, turning them into other questions to Galadas's obvious frustration.

 

She didn't know why they were doing it, but it seemed odd. Tomorrow she'd ask Thranduil about it, either before or after practice, but for now she'd keep the information to herself. Packing the necklace away, she sighed in satisfaction and realized there was none here but her. It must be really late then. She glanced up at the sky, but cloud cover made it hard for her to judge the time. Part of her wanted to seek Thranduil out, to give him the gift immediately, But if he were resting or engaged in preparations for war he might not appreciate her interrupting. Better to wait until a time they were alone or the betrothal ceremony. It would make a good gift, though she would prefer to see him wear it in the battle. Yes, the morning of the battle then. That would work.

 

She wished she could show _**someone**_ though, someone who would dependably keep it secret. Badhor was off duty, Lileal still with her family, but as she passed the library and saw the light still on she thought perhaps her friend Celebrimdal might be there. Perhaps it was not so late as she thought, though she really didn't know the library hours. She went in the mornings or afternoons, the nights occupied with the king and then her jewelsmithing. She was a bit dirty and sweaty from her work, but she doubted Celebrimdal would care overly much.

 

Still. She cast a quick spell to clean herself and her clothes and then stepped inside the library. She did not see Tuel step out of the darkness, nor note her following, so silent was the warrior.

 

Inside all was dark, save for a light far in the back. Perhaps it was closed after all,“Celebrimdal?”

 

More light came on, and Celebrindal emerged from the shelves, “Zaile, what brings you to the library in the middle of the night?”

 

“Is it the middle of the night? I just finished a gift for the king and wanted someone to look at it, someone who would not give away the surprise.”

 

“And you could not wait until the morn?” His voice held a note of teasing, as if she were a particularly adorable child.

 

“Nope. Want to see?”

 

He laughed, then said, “I fear I shall be forced to look whether I wish or no.”

 

“Please?”

 

“Of course, child, show me your trinket.”

 

She unwrapped the necklace and heard his intake of breath.

 

“You are of the Noldor, of the line of Finwe, there is no other who could make such a piece.”

 

“What is it with everyone's sudden burning need to know about my family?”

 

“I am not asking. I state the obvious. None but that line could make such as this.”

 

He examined the necklace by the light, seemed entranced by it, “These gems, I have never seen their like. It is as if each holds a star or a constellation of stars. How is this possible?”

 

“They are starshine gems, they don't have them in this realm.”

 

He set it down with a sigh, then looked at her with concern. “Who inquires regarding your family?”

 

“Tuel, Galadas, Garthil so far. It's just strange, I don't understand their purpose.”

 

“The king's councilors, of course. You are of the Noldor, and some of them likely may see your resemblance to Irime, as I do. I am surprised the king sees it not, though he perhaps does not wish to see.”

 

“You know my grandmother?”

 

“Yes, I knew her. I thought her dead.”

 

“Oh, no, she is very much alive. Were you friends?”

 

“No, I was a youth but I remember her. Fair was she, and skilled at healing above all others. It seems you have inherited her gifts, among others. Though you are but part elf, the blood of the Noldor runs strong and true in you.”

 

“I guess so, I still have a lot to learn though to be able to heal like her.”

 

He sat at the table and indicated for her to sit. After thought, he retrieved a genealogy of the Noldor and said, “Show me your family.”

 

She read over the genealogy. Finwe, then the children of their children, marking the deaths and the marriages, the births. There were an awful lot of deaths for immortal beings, what the hell had happened? Under Feanor, she saw that Maglor and his siblings were all marked dead. At least one part of it was wrong then.

 

She pointed to Maglor's name, “He's not dead. He's the king of the Ettuli,”

 

Celebredom's eyes widened and he leaned over to whisper, “Your king is Maglor, truly?”

 

It was an odd reaction, but she mirrored him and leaned in to whisper to him, “Yes. Why are we whispering?”

 

He straightened, seemed to brace himself, then said, “You are of the Noldor. The king is of the Sindar. The Noldor have spilled much Sindar blood, among others. Your cousin and king led the attack that caused the death of the king's mother and drove him from his home as a youth. Your grandmother served as healer to the army that destroyed his home. Many of the Sindar here are refugees from that same war. There is no love for the Noldor in this realm.”

 

Zaile stood, slammed her hands on the table, “That's not true! That's just not true. Maglor is a good king, he avoids war if at all possible! He would never seek war or make war on innocents. And my grandmother, she would never support anyone in evil! You're lying, why would you tell me these lies?”

 

Celebrimdal sighed, and walked to the shelves and fetched her several books, “These are the history of the Noldor, several different accounts of the same events. Read for yourself.”

 

Almost, almost she simply left and dismissed his words. But the look of compassion on his face, the sorrow and kindness in it, had her snatch up the first book and begin to angrily read.

 

Hours passed, and after she read all five personal accounts she knew it was true. Nauseous, she felt physically ill at the actions of her cousin. The accounts said little regarding her grandmother, only that she was a great healer, but of her cousin, he had been driven by his oath to commit great evil. Now she fully understood their prohibitions against oaths, and swore one last one to herself—that she would never make another.

 

“I have to tell him. Before the betrothal, I have to tell him. I didn't know, they don't teach the history of this place. I can see why, who wants to know their relatives are murderers?” She laughed bitterly.

 

Celebrimdal was quiet, then said, “If he loves you, it will matter not to him. You are not like unto the sons of Feanor, but rather like to Celebrimbor. Not all our people are given to violence, the Lady Galdriel is not, nor is Lord Elrond.”

 

“I don't even know who those people are,” she rubbed her head and said, “I'm going to bed. I'll sleep and clear my head then talk with him after I wake. I have no idea what I'm to say, but I'll talk to him.”

 

“I wish you well, Zaile. On the morrow I leave for Lothlorien. Should you need assistance, you may find me there along with others of the Noldor,” he pressed a slim book into her hands.

 

She opened it to find a series of maps of this world, “I'm not leaving.”

 

“Take it. It will ease my heart of worry for you.”

 

“Fine,” she slipped it into her pack and said, “But I won't leave. I'll, somehow I'll, I don't know what I'll do to make it right but I won't leave him.”

 

* * *

 

Tuel watched as Zaile left, then watched as the Noldor left as well. Long she sat in the dark and considered what she heard. For the king to marry one of the Noldor, especially one so closely aligned to Maglor, it was difficult to stomach. The peredhel seemed sincere in her love, but it was the love of a Noldor. Love had not prevented Feanor and his sons from abandoning their wives to war, from the murder of innocents. And she was young, and the young were apt to change.

 

It was not her decision, not alone. She would consult with the other councilors and then they would decide when to notify the king. Swiftly she stood and sought a guard to send word to the others. They would meet this morn, this could not wait.

 

Once assembled, she related what she had overheard. The council was silent until at last Garthil spoke, “We must notify the king immediately, for the protection of the Lady Zaile as much as his own.”

 

“Surely you do not think he would harm her?!” This from Ithilas, a young councilor and a friend to Galadas, “His love for her is clear to all!”

 

Galadas spoke, “As is his temper. I would not see the Lady Zaile attempt to flee him to her harm.”

 

“What of her suitability, what say you to that? Surely you would not accept such as her as queen?” Tuel spoke passionately, angrily.

 

“She knew not her history, has done naught but benefit this realm, and sought not the king's favor. The lady is not to blame for her relatives. Let us not forget the Lady Galdriel and Lord Elrond are of the Noldor as well, and yet we count them allies.”

 

“The king will never accept her, not now,” Tuel crossed her arms and sat back, “I saw Maglor at the Havens of Sirion, his sword dripping the blood of our people, and I am not alone.”

 

Galadas looked at her long, until Tuel dropped her face in shame. He had lost his beloved wife and two sons at the Havens, while she had lost no one. Softly he said, “Did she not call them murderers? I think the lady is not of a kind with Maglor, and she is only partly of the Noldor.”

 

“And the rest is some sort of witch!” This from Tuel.

 

“It matters not. The king will decide. Let us call him and speak with him,” Garthil spoke firmly and stood, “I will send word to him that the council awaits him with urgent news.”

 

* * *

 

Thranduil stepped inside the council chamber, having made his way swiftly there. Only the gravest of news would have them summon him in such a fashion. The faces of his councilors reflected distress and worry, and so he assumed the icy calm best suited to crisis. Seated at the head of the table, he inclined his head and Garthil spoke.

 

“My king, some concerns have arisen concerning the background of the Lady Zalie...”

 

Not this again. Annoyance rose in him at this pointless concern with her genealogy. What matter her parents? He could see within her eyes the truth of her love. His former wife had been of a pure and known lineage, and he had an heir of noble blood. That should suffice. He looked to the side and sighed in irritation then snapped back to attention when he heard what she said next.

 

“Tuel thought it odd that she would meet Celebrimdal in the middle of the night in the library, and so she followed and listened unobserved. The Lady Zaile relayed her lineage to him, that she is the granddaughter of Irime and that Maglor is her king.”

 

Rare was it for him to be stunned to silence, last had been his reading of his former wife's missive to him. That was nothing compared to this. The love he felt for Zaile coiled within him and turned to anger, anger that she had seen fit to tell her fellow Noldor the truth before him, anger that he loved one such as her, anger that now he could see the resemblance to the great healer who chose to ally herself with Maglor, to support him and his brother Maedros in their deeds, using her skill to allow them to wreak far more destruction that they would otherwise have been able. He saw the truth in Tuel, that Garthil spoke truly.

 

“Tell me all, Tuel, exactly as you recall it. Leave nothing out.”

 

He listened, then thought. That she had sought the Noldor out of a desire to display some gift she made for him, it made little difference to him. She turned to him to share her concerns over the inquires of his councilors, still felt a connection to the Noldor above himself. That he offered her a way to come to him, jealousy burned within him white hot. But she refused him, repeated she would stay. His heart was in turmoil, he knew not what to think. He loved her, but how _**could**_ he love such as her?

 

He had the battle to think of, and she her role in it. He would speak to her after, once he had time to reflect and decide, once his wrath cooled. He could not speak to her now, not as he was, he would not trust himself to do so alone and would not have this conversation publicly. Perhaps battle would cool his blood, and perhaps it would not. He could send her back to her realm, as she wished. No. He did not wish. Why would he aid any of the house of Feanor? Though she be of Finwe's house, her king made her of Feanor, thrice accursed, thrice the source of elf slaying elf.

 

He would hew to his duty, and attend to his personal feelings after the battle. He pulled the cloak of cold detachment over himself and said, “Thank you. I will consider your words.” He then stood and strode out of the room.

 

Galadas followed, “My king, might I speak with you?”

 

Swiftly he turned, leaned into Galadas and spat, “Speak then.”

 

Whatever he saw in his face, it made Galadas look grave indeed. He bowed and spread his arms, spoke softly, “My king, at the Havens my wife was slain, my two sons as well. Had it not have been for my role as adviser to your father, and now to yourself, I would have left these shores long ago.”

 

“Your point, make it.”

 

“I do not blame the Lady Zaile, and long have I known she was of the Noldor. She much resembles her grandmother, and yet I can not hate her for it. The lady is fair of heart, my lord.”

 

“I shall be the judge of that, Galadas, and of my own affairs. I would thank you not to meddle in them!”

 

At that Thranduil swept away, tempted to wake her and confront her now but knowing that such would be the action of a fool. He stalked through the halls to the stable and had them saddle his elk. He would ride. The preparations for the battle were all but done, and what was left was in capable hands. He must cool his blood lest he, what? What might he do? He knew not. Never had he been so consumed with rage. He felt as though she had tricked him, had fooled him, and indeed she had—never would he have allowed her in his realm, nor his _**bed**_ , had he know what she was.

 

He rode forth, the sun shining full in the sky, the day beautiful and he felt it mocked him too. Hated by the Valar he must be, indeed he must, that this be the female he cleaved to, that he loved.

 

* * *

 

Zaile woke and at first felt refreshed...and then she remembered who she was now, the granddaughter of a woman who served as healer to an army that killed other elves for, for _**jewelry.**_ Her cousin she could somewhat excuse. His father bound him with an oath and when he took it he likely thought it would be Morgoth he fought for the Silmarils. But then there was the first Kinslaying, that they killed the Teleri for boats, like they could not build their own boats, or cross the ice like the rest of the Noldor. The oath didn't compel that, that was all them. Her cousin would have been part of that for sure, at least her grandmother was part of the host that crossed the ice.

 

And for what? Stupid pride, stupid stupid pride and anger. She felt disgusted with her family, and confused, and ashamed at the deep love she still held for them. How could the Maglor she knew be this other one as well? Her gentle moral grandmother be aligned with such evil? More than ever she wished to speak to them, to hear what they had to say for themselves, to ask them why they hid so many things from her, though that she thought was probably self-serving—who would tell such stories if they had the choice not to?

 

Now she must face Thranduil and tell him. How would he react? Celebrimdal said that if he loved her, he would accept her. That, that seemed uncertain. Best to get it over with, to be honest with him. She would speak to him and hope for his love to outweigh his anger. She rose, dressed for the day, and went forth to find him.

 

“Lady Zaile,” one of the guard called to her as she left the royal quarter.

 

“Yes?”

 

“The king left word that he would not have time to practice today and would be occupied in preparations for the morrow. He bids you to rest.”

 

“Thank you.”

 

She went to the library and read more of her family. Some were honorable, though as a whole her people were both the most skilled and the most violent, given to passions the other elves controlled. Mostly. Thingol was certainly prideful but Feanor and his sons took the real prize for evil. Eol was maybe just as bad, but with a lower body count. She would no longer call Maglor king. He was her cousin, but she could not bear to have him be her king. Until that moment, she had not thought it mattered to her, him as king. But it did. When she returned she would align herself fully with the witches. If she were to have a king, it would be Thranduil. If he would have her.

At last, the day turned into the night and she headed back to her quarters, weary with grief and dreading the day.

 

She woke in the darkness as she felt the bed dip with the weight of another. Strong arms enfolded her and a voice in her ear whispered softly, “Be still.”

 

Thranduil. She thought to speak to him, but would not ruin this moment, perhaps the last time he held her in his arms. And so she stayed silent, memorizing the feel of him against her, his scent, until she fell back to sleep again.

 

Alone, she woke to an unfamiliar attendant urging her to rise up, bathe, and be prepared for the ride to battle. It would be three days ride, and on the third they would likely engage the enemy. Perfect. She would be at the peak of her powers then. She dressed, the attendant helping her into the mithril shirt. It now fit, Thranduil having had it fitted since last she wore it.

 

She walked out to meet the day and saw him as she entered the stable. Cold, aloof, every inch the king, she felt nervous to approach him. He saw her, and his face remained the same. Of course, they rode to battle and perhaps he must maintain formality in such a situation. She approached and removed the gift she had for him from her pack.

 

“Good morning, Lady Zaile,” he greeted her politely, as if she were no different than any other.

 

“I, I have a gift for you, King Thranduil,” she removed the necklace from the pouch and heard a collective gasp as the gems caught the light of the early morning sun and shone as brilliant stars.

 

His eyes widened and he reached forth his hand to touch the it, then took it from her and examined it, some warmth flowing back into his eyes.

 

“It's a bit like my necklace, but maybe not as strong. It will protect you from magic, poison, physical weapons, fire, pretty much any threat and should you be harmed it will heal you. I, I wanted you to be safe.”

 

He put it on and it looked perfect on him, exquisite. A riot of emotion was on his face, and finally he bowed his head and said, “Thank you, lady, I shall wear it gladly.” Then he turned and strode off to mount his elk and moved to the vanguard of the army.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil stood looking down at her as she slept, feeling the ache to hold her as if it were a physical thing. This the night of their third day of travel, and on the morrow they would face battle. So far he had held her each night, slinking to her the deepest part of the night, his desire to be near her overwhelming his good judgment and filling him with self-loathing for his weakness. Always he was gone before morning, and none saw him leave. Somehow he resisted her pull while in the day, the gaze of his councilors upon him. Often, he saw her glance his way as they rode, her face questioning but then settling into acceptance. So certain was she of him, he thought sneering, and why not? Had he not pursued her blindly with no concern for who she truly was? No doubt she thought he would accept her despite her allegiance to her vile king. What reason would she have to doubt her power over him?

 

Tonight he would resist. She turned and moonlight illuminated her pale face set like a star amid the night of her hair. He fingered the necklace she gave him, as beautiful as her, and thought that perhaps he would _**take**_ these gifts and allow this Noldor to serve his needs. Marriage? No. But her love would tie her to him and he would not let her go. Not yet. Not while she could be of such use to him. He turned to leave, settled that he had found a compromise of sorts. He would reject her ring, but keep her. Let her feel as he felt, let her work to earn his love and acceptance. Perhaps if she showed herself truly loyal he might accept her. He turned on his heel and made as if to leave.

 

“Thranduil? Is that you?” Her sleepy voice halted him.

 

“Yes.”

 

She sat up and wiped her eyes, then stood and made her way to him where she leaned against his breast and circled him with her arms, “I'm ready for tomorrow. Tonight I felt the mountains as we approached, they are full of those spider and orc things but concentrated in some patches more than others. The spiders will be easy—I can get the major concentrations with fire. But the orcs are deep in the mountains. I can fill the caves with lava and collapse others, though it might take me more than one day. I thought I might do that before the battle and then your army can get the ones left, sort of like collapsing an anthill. What do you think?”

 

He thought he ached to kiss her. Turning his mind to battle strategy he considered her proposal. If the orcs knew their holes were unsafe, they would rush from them in an onslaught. Better to drive them deep inside the mountain, let them think themselves safe, then end them.

 

“I would that you use fire to drive them to their holes, then we shall kill the stragglers. Perhaps seal their holes shut and finish them the next day.”

 

“That's better, you're right. I definitely have enough power for that and by the next day I can end them in their caves.”

 

He was surprised at how blasé she was over so much death, “Will it trouble you to kill so many?”

 

“They're not really alive. I can't tell how this necromancer is doing it, but I think he has taken a soul and split it. There is a spark of life but it isn't complete, it's like, I don't know. I'd have to really look at one of them to know what it is, but it isn't good. Killing them is a mercy. If I kill all of the ones that share a soul then that soul is free and can rest, assuming it's a soul.”

 

Of course she was motivated by good, he thought wryly. This would be easier if she were less...her. And then she looked up at him and he saw Irime in her face. How had he not seen that she was so obviously of the Noldor? He felt a fool and held her back from him.

 

“Are you ok?” Her voice reflected her concern for him.

 

“Yes. I must go. There is much to do yet.”

 

“I love you, Thanduil.”

 

“Yes, I shall be with you on the morrow. Go back to sleep.”

 

Concern was reflected on her features and he could no longer resist. He bent and kissed her, pleasure rushing through him. He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her to him roughly, angry that he could not control himself with her this night, any night. He kissed her savagely, brutally, selfishly, taking his pleasure from her. And she met him, gave passion for passion, yielding to him. He threw her down on her cot, then stood above her panting as she looked up at him in surprise. Then he turned and left. He must, else he take her and be trapped with her forever.

 

* * *

 

He knew. She'd suspected but that kiss, and the look on his face, he _**knew.**_ Had Celebrimdal told him? What had he told him? She felt sick that he heard from someone else. He was furious, so angry, his eyes glittered dangerously as he looked down at her, his lip curled in disgust. She curled in on herself and cried. How could Celebrimdal betray her confidence? He must have told Thranduil that very morning, before he left. And now he thought, what, that she deceived him? She rose to go speak to him and then halted—the first light of dawn shone in the sky. It was time for war and this must wait.

 

How many other knew? She'd felt some difference in the way others approached her, not all, but some. How many of these people had been hurt by her family? Celebrimdal recognized her grandmother in her, had others? No wonder some of them held themselves aloof from her and cast sidelong glances her way. And she'd just stupidly wandered through with no idea that her face reminded them of their losses. Again, she felt sick and wished more than ever she could go home. Though home, was it a refuge any more?

 

No, it was still home. Her parents had no guilt, and they loved her. Home was home. The sooner she could get there, the better. She looked across the field to the king. Unless he would still, somehow, accept her. He came to her tonight, had come every night despite knowing the truth. Held her, breathed in her scent. But always in the middle of the night, and always gone by morning, and he did not kiss her until this night and that kiss, it was different.

 

She would focus on being of use. Home was impossible for now, and that place Celebrimdal went, Lothlorien, no, she wasn't going to where the friend who betrayed her went. It hurt, so much, to think that he betrayed her trust. Zaile the Soft-Hearted, so ready to believe anything. When would she finally learn? She had to make this place work or be alone in this world.

 

Turning back into her tent, she closed the flap and prepared for war. While it sickened her to don her blade, Arneth's words concerning the sword taking on new meaning, there was no point in pretending to be something she was not. She loaded and added the guns—not many rounds left but useful once she exhausted her power.

 

“Spade,”

 

The little cat leapt off the cot and ran outside. She assumed her largest form, a form big enough to ride for an entire day, and Zaile stood leaning against her. She was thankful for her friend, and strangely thankful for the necklace as well. It was alive, it protected her--it was a sort of friend then. She stroked her hand down it and it thrummed in her hand, the sentience in it seeming to acknowledge her. Her only two friends, the only two she could know would still accept her. Badhor was the king's, would put the king before her and follow him. What would Lileal think? Mirael? Arneth had recognized her blade and not thought ill of her, but then Celebrimdal had been kind and still spoke to the king. Perhaps he thought it his duty, but he should have told her if that was the case.

 

She must clear her mind. If she were to be effective in battle, she must clear her mind. Magic was about focus and right now hers was shot. She mounted Spade and rode slightly away from camp. She would make offering to Hecate for good fortune this day, something that she held dear. As she rode, she felt for a clean place, a place where she could feel the goddess's presence, but it was hard. This realm felt so far away from her own, and her god felt similarly distant. Perhaps one of the Valar then? But which one? And did the elves even make offerings to them?

 

Perhaps Nienna, for she could certainly use mercy and her heart was breaking inside her. Nienna then. She had no idea how to invoke her, or even of you were supposed to invoke her, or if she'd hear if you did, but it was worth a shot.

 

There was a clearing ahead, a place shadowed by great oaks untouched by webbing or stain. A small pool, probably spring fed, was in the center of an uneven circle of pale spring grass. Dismounting from Spade, she removed her boots and socks and walked forward into the place. It felt clean, open, as if something or someone was listening. Good enough. The dearest thing she had was the last bottle of her grandmother's wine, and so she took it out and set it next to the pool and knelt in prayer.

 

_Nienna, Lady of sorrow and hope, I Zaile of the Noldor, of the Ettuli, of the New Orleans coven, I invoke you and ask your aid this day. My heart is filled with the grief of what those I love have done, and filled with fear at the loss of those I love. I am alone in a land with those who rightly hate me for what my family has done, I can't blame them, but it is hard to bear. I ask for the strength to prove myself, to somehow make amends for the great evil done by my family, and for hope that somehow Thranduil might forgive me and love me._

_Lady of mourning, I come to you in need and ask you to help me, though I am no true elf and have no right to your aid. But I am far from home, and my god does not answer me, and so I ask for your pity. Great lady, aid me in my time of need. I give to you this last bottle of my grandmother's house, my last taste of home, and ask for for your help._

 

She then opened her heart and let her magic spread out throughout the clearing. Far, far away she felt the glimmer of Hecate answer, but no other. When she opened her eyes, the bottle was untouched.

 

“Did you think they would answer such as you,” a cold voice came from behind her.

 

She turned and found Thranduil leaning against a tree, watching her.

 

“I hoped.”

 

He stalked closer, glared down at her, then said, “I have need of you. Come.” He then reached down and said, “As you have no need of this, I will take it. You may make your offerings to me.” But as he lifted it, the bottle caught the light and she saw it was empty.

 

Thranduil looked down, saw it was empty, and his lips thinned, “Very well, prove yourself to me then. Come.”

 

He turned on his heel, mounted the elk and rode from the clearing without a backward glance.

 

Zaile bowed and thanked Nienna. And while she did not feel different, within her a spark of hope took light.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	22. Lileal Makes an Intervention

Thranduil led her to the royal tent. Inside, his councilors stood in small groups and spoke among themselves. As soon as she entered, silence fell, though Galadas smiled kindly at her and inclined his head in greeting. On the table were maps of the mountains and diagrams of troop movements and potential plans. She saw that the areas she had felt the greatest concentration of orcs and spiders were already marked and that the elves knew well where their enemies hid and multiplied. Entering behind the king, she took a spot in the back away from everyone else, and waited to see what he would ask of her.

 

After seating himself, Thranduil indicated her with a laconic hand, “Zaile will use her magic to start fires and drive our enemies into the their holes. Once there, she will seal them inside and collapse the caves.”

 

“Will not the fire spread, my king?” Tuel asked, glancing at her doubtfully.

 

He looked to her coldly, “Zaile?”

 

“No, I can control it.” She stepped up to the map. “I felt these places before I saw this map. So, here and here,” she pointed to the worst concentrations of spiders, “and here and here,” she pointed to the multiple entrances to the cave system, “I can use lightening and wind to create a firestorm. But you have to keep people out of the areas you want me to burn. I can control where the fire burns but I, I'm unsure of what would happen if troops wandered into an area that was on fire. I think it might be better to have me burn and trap most of them and then send in the army.”

 

“Could you blanket the entire mountain in fire and clear the entirety of it?” This from Galadas.

 

“No, at least I'm not sure. Maybe.” These mountains were more like a series of really tall hills and the range was not that large. “Also, most of the land isn't dead. I'd prefer to not burn that part. I'll collapse all the caves though—they are almost entirely concentrated in the large center peak”

 

“So you can feel the difference, the edge of the corruption?” Again, Galadas.

 

“Yes, exactly. I can burn away all the corruption and trap them in their caves in one day but...” she hesitated, uncertain what to say. Thranduil had spoken with such certainty of her ability, but she really thought she'd been clear this was a two day job for her in this realm. Maybe he misunderstood?

 

“Speak,” This, impatiently, from Thranduil.

 

“If I also collapse the caves, finish it all in one day, I will need someone to watch over me as I will probably be exhausted. I may sleep for a time.” 

 

“How long?”

 

“A few days, maybe a week or so. But it might not happen at all. This is the fullness of the moon, when my power is greatest. I've also spent the last three days storing some of my power in Spade and my necklace. I might be fine.”

 

He looked at her consideringly, his eyes cold and hard, then said, “Try. If it works we will have little work to do and little risk to my people.”

 

“My king! The risk to the Lady Zaile...” Galadas spoke hastily.

 

“Is hers to decide. If she thinks herself capable, then let her _**prove**_ herself.”

 

The councilors exchanged glances, clearly discomfited at the direction this had gone. But none were willing to gainsay the king. If he wanted her to prove herself, then she would.

 

“Come, Zaile, show me your power. Where do you need to stand to best _**prove**_ yourself?” He emphasized prove again, and she knew then he referenced her prayer to Nienna. He was offering her a chance then. Hope sparked in her and determination—she would clear these mountains completely for him. A gift to him and his people. She could do this.

 

“Here is fine,” Location didn't matter, not for this. They were at the foothills of the mountains, midway through the range. This spot was as good as any other.

 

“Then, begin as you will,” he leaned back and gestured for her to begin.

 

“I'll go outside. It's better if I can feel the ground directly under my feet for this.”

 

He nodded, then stood and indicated for her to go first. They exited the tent and she found a spot over by the cook fires where it was warm. Many elves looked at her curiously, and she heard a whisper of, “The Lady of the Greenwood,” but she had already dug in her toes, Spade was already in her arms, and the trance had begun. She did not see Thranduil glare to see who had given her such honor, nor did she care. She was going to prove herself to him and for the first time since she had helped Artemis she opened her magic full throttle, allowed the torrent of it to race through her and became its instrument as it was hers.

 

* * *

 

 

Her eyes were as the first silvery leaf of the beech, and a pale green glow as of the first soft grass of spring radiated from her. Galadas thought he had never seen anything so beautiful or so eerie. He saw then the lightening begin to strike the mountains, fire burst forth and the wind rose and fanned it into an inferno that rose as a wall of flame outside the encampment. The people cried out in fear, but the king calmed them with raised hand, seeming to expect this. All watched as the mountains burned, the spiders rushed forth and burst and died. He saw no orcs, but knew they had fled to the deeps of the mountain. They could rout them out; it would be easy now their allies the spiders were gone.

 

Hours she stood, unmoving, her little cat turned toward the mountain, both lost in the work at hand. The king called for chairs to be brought, as if this were some sort of entertainment, and ordered wine, his cold eyes never leaving her face. Funnels dipped from the sky and tore the burnt trees to nothing, scoured the befouled sections of the mountains bare so there was no cover, nowhere for any evil thing to hide. She began to pant, to waver, but her necklace stirred, and began to spin upon it's chain, green fire emanating from it in waves and seeming to strengthen her. Fire spit from the central mountain as the top collapsed inward, a black cloud beginning to rise but trapped within her magic. He could not even smell the smoke of the fire, let alone this cataclysm she was creating. She raised her hand and closed it, the mountains shifting and settling with a great groaning and he knew she was removing the hiding places of the orcs, truly cleansing the mountains in such a way their refuges would be gone forever.

 

Suddenly, the little cat twisted in her arms, yowled a warning and hissed.

 

“I just need a little more to finish. Chill,” she mumbled.

 

Galadas could see the exhaustion on her face, the way she swayed with it, the necklace spinning more slowly, and glanced at the king. Still he watched her with cold eyes, seeming unmoved by her plight.

 

“My king...”

  
Thranduil held up his hand, forestalling any word.

 

A torrential rain began, clearing the smoke and washing the air above the mountain clean. She half knelt, half collapsed and pressed her hands to the ground. A blanket of pale grass studded with niphredil spread out from her, though not far, until she collapsed face forward into the grass, her cat crying and pacing around her.

 

The king stood and made as if to bend and pick her up, but the little cat hissed at him viciously and seemed to grow larger but then shrink back. Still, it stood upon its mistress and growled, obviously intending to fight, and quite clearly perceiving him as the source of its mistress's grief. Then, a sort of green light flickered over her, strengthened into a sort of closely fitting pale green dome of light, and the cat subsided within it to glare at the king balefully, it's blue eyes twin lamps of anger in the fading light.

 

Galadas could not but agree with the sentiment. Some darkness had come over his king, a cruelty he had but rarely seen in him. It was as if the love he bore for the lady had turned to a hate as fiery as it was undeserved. Pride, his king's pride. It must be that as ever he would not tolerate it being pricked in any way.

 

The king stood and said, “This was your mistress's choice beast and no doing of mine.”

 

The cat ignored him, simply nudged her mistress's face until it turned to the side and then curled next to her to hiss viciously again at the king.

 

The king glared back, and any hilarity of this moment, his king in a confrontation with a small black cat, was eclipsed by the worry he felt for the Lady Zaile. She breathed, but it was shallow and she was pale indeed, her cheeks hollow and worn. He wondered at what cost this cleansing had come, and if the king were truly prepared to pay it.

 

“Allow me to move her inside.”

 

The cat ignored him, to the king's growing fury.

 

“Very well then, if she sickens due to the elements it shall be upon your head.”

 

At this, the little cat's eyes opened. It turned and presented its rear to the king, the tail high and tip waving as it waggled its hindquarters at the King of the Woodland Realm, then turned and curled back into a watchful puff of black next to its mistress's face. Galadas could not help but stifle a laugh, the message as clear as it was defiant.

 

The king seemed to realize he was making a public fool of himself and calmed, the coldness of before settling over him.

 

“Very well, if you will not allow me to move her to shelter, I shall move the shelter to her.”

 

Soon the royal tent was reassembled around Zaile, the king warning the guards to steer well clear of the dome and not to touch it. He lit braziers for warmth and seemed, if not sorrowful, at least concerned. He called for the healers and Galadas followed them inside.

 

“Her fea is weakened, but not as before,” said Celebredom, the head healer.

 

Galadas felt relief. He would fain not see the lady come to harm, especially in the pursuit of benefit to the kingdom. Tuel had entered as well and seemed to be regarding the Lady Zaile with a combination of awe and sorrow.

 

“How long will she sleep?”

 

“I know not, my lord. But I venture not as long as before,” Celebredom hesitated, then continued, “Perhaps she might reside in the healing halls upon her awakening?”

 

“No.”

 

“For a time only, my king.”

 

“No. She will be given quarters suited to her status.”

 

Galadas felt his heart fill with sorrow, both for his king and the one he knew he had loved. Even Tuel looked moved to pity by this cold declaration.

 

“Perhaps she might serve then in the healing halls, my king.”

 

Thranduil looked upon Celebredom coldly, “Perhaps, if I see fit. The lady has prayed to Nienna and asked to prove herself to me, to make amends for the evil done by her forebears. This, I will allow.”

 

Galadas looked upon the lady and in that moment found her as noble as she was fair. The wrongdoings of her kin were theirs to expunge, and what had she to prove? Her love? Her loyalty? He glanced at his king and was minded of last he saw him thus, angered by the dwarf Thorin's insolent offense. But the Lady Zaile had done naught but allow the king to win her heart, and that reluctantly.

 

He sighed, and the king turned his gaze upon him, “Have you ought to say Galadas?”

 

It was useless to argue with the king when the black mood was upon him. Anger would feed anger and so he held his tongue and said, “No, my king.”

 

Thranduil inclined his head and said, “All but a garrison of thirty departs on the morrow. Celebredom, you will stay and monitor the Lady Zaile. When she reawakens and is fit for travel, return to the halls.”

 

At that he gestured for them to leave. They stood and filed out, and none seemed glad of heart despite the victory of the day.

 

He walked with his fellow councilors and Tuel spoke somberly, “I would I had held my tongue.”

 

Galadas shook his head, “Nay, the black mood would have come upon him had she told him herself. The loss of his mother ever weighs on him and the anger he feels toward the sons of Feanor for her death. The lady would have faced his wrath alone, fresh and without thought.”

 

“Perhaps. But I would I had no part in her hurt.”

 

Galadas looked to his fellow councilor, “And what of your revenge for the Havens?”

 

Tuel shook her head, “I would I had no part in this day.”

 

* * *

 

Thranduil watched through the night, the light from the braziers flickering over her as she slept. Ever did Spade watch him, the cat seeming to require no sleep, the eerie light of the necklace playing over them both. Zaile had shifted onto her side, slung an arm over Spade and sighed in sleep. Seemed to be resting well and he could feel her fea slowly strengthening. It was not nearly as weak as before and for that he was glad, now the darkness had burnt itself to banked coals within him.

 

He considered her prayer to Nienna, and that it had been accepted. Assuredly she had proven her devotion to his people this day, and yet rage coiled within him ready to strike again. To be joined to one who was sworn and loyal to Maglor, he would not have chosen this. And yet he felt drawn to her even now, rage and regret warring within him. And love. He loved her still, though he would not.

 

His mother, so young, so fair, her pale blonde hair waving in the sea winds of Sirion, gray eyes flashing with laughter as she played with him in the surf. He was her first, her only child, born in that brief peace between the fall of Doriath and the attack of the sons of Feanor on the Havens. He had but 30 years when she died, and he felt her loss bitterly as only a child can. After her death, his father grew colder, grief at her loss ever his companion.

 

Maglor had much to answer for, and yet in this new land he was a king and had the love of his people. Tuel reported Zaile had angrily defended him at first, claimed he was a good and righteous king. His lip curled, anger suffusing him at the thought that Maglor rested in peace and comfort while his mother waited still in the Halls of Mandos. It was not to be borne.

 

Irime. To choose to be a healer to such an army, it was impossible to understand such a choice. As his father carried him from the Havens he saw her in the Noldor camp, singing over an injured soldier, perhaps one of the very ones who slew his mother. She was so very fair, her voice achingly lovely, dark hair down to her knees and he ever questioned how one who seemed so full of light could offer aid to those so dark as to slay another elf. Murder not done in passion, but deliberately with forethought and planning.

 

In Zaile's face he saw hers. The eyes were different, the height, her frame both more petite and curvier, and yet there was much of Irime in her, much of the Noldor. He fingered the necklace she gave him, a work of such beauty he doubted even the dwarves could match it. It could not be denied—in her the blood of the Noldor ran true. And yet, the Noldor had no magics like hers, and unlike them she had no aptitude for the sword or any desire for war. When threatened, she shielded herself and fought only at absolute need.

 

He knew her to be fair of heart, and yet anger roiled within him, and jealousy that she would confide in Celebrimdal before himself. Fury that she had Maglor for her king. He could not accept it. He would not.

 

And yet he could not bear to lose her. Thranduil dropped his head into his hands and, for the first time in millennia, knew not what to do.

 

On the morrow, the king left his tent and watched as his army decamped, his councilors bid him farewell, and the carts of the supply train loaded and departed. He had thought to leave with them, but upon the morn found the thought of departure displeasing. Long had it been since he visited these mountains and he found the thought of a ride in them pleasant. He told himself did not stay for Zaile.

 

Upon his return, he thought to practice with his guards, the ride having done naught to improve his mood. Everywhere upon the mountain he saw that Zaile had served him well, proven herself indeed. The air was clean, the land felt fresh and renewed, the quiet of before replaced with bird song and the rustle of creatures returning to the remaining forest now the darkness had departed. He thought not on _**why**_ she had done this, preferring to think it out of guilt over the actions of her forebears rather than for love of him. But as he rode back into camp, his warriors saw beneath the cold detachment to the anger and sorrow below and knew their king to suffer.

 

Word had spread as to the nature of the king's pain and rage. His lady was of the Noldor, had not know her own heritage until she read of it, a revelation as displeasing to her as to the king. Many among the Silvan army thought his suffering self-imposed and had little patience with it despite the love they bore their king. They remembered the Lady Zaile's tireless humble work in the healing halls, had seen her suffer to rout the mountains, and thought the king ought to take what the Valar provided and be grateful. The lady was fair of heart and form, strong in magic, and her love for the king clear to all. Yet they knew ever the Sindar of Greenwood despised the Noldor and so had little hope of the king being reasonable. In this he seemed much as his father Oropher, though he was ever more cautious than his father and far less likely to waste their lives for pride as his father did at the Battle of Dagorlad. He was a good king, loved by all, yet there was much pity for the Lady Zaile as they watched the king stride toward his tent.

 

Thranduil stepped into his tent and saw Spade leap back to her mistress and the green dome spark to life again. She lay now upon a cot and was covered. The cat hissed viciously at him and bared her teeth.

 

“Be still, beast, I harbor no ill intent.”

 

Spade growled and lashed her tail, facing him then subsiding into a small puff of anger and ill will crouched next to her mistress. Thranduil ignored her and dressed for practice. He stepped forth into the yard and out of the corner of his eye saw the dome wink out again and Spade slink out to watch him leave. As he took position with Badhor to practice, he saw the cat at the opening to the tent, sitting with her tail wrapped around her and watching them, a small sentinel.

 

They began battle and he felt first the shoulder seam give way. Odd, but perhaps there had been a rip he missed. Then, as he crouched and parried a strike by Badhor, the seams of his trousers gave way and he stood attired in strips of cloth, all but rags. A chuffing sound came across the entirely silent encampment and he looked to see what made it. The cat, the chuffing clearly her form of laughter, turned and reentered the tent.

 

Instead of rage, he felt weariness and sorrow steal over him. With what shreds of his dignity remained, he entered his tent and said, “Such pettiness is below you, beast.”

 

Spade did not hiss, but she turned her back to him and ignored him. Upon inspection, it was found that the entirety of the king's wardrobe had been altered, four stitches carefully removed as with a tiny sharp tool, or a cat's claw, for every one that remained. The clothing would hold for a time, but not for long. The king borrowed clothes from Celebredom and sat ill at ease in his tent, the borrowed clothes a bit too short and not nearly as fine or as flattering. He watched Zaile sleep and felt discomfited by by far more than his clothing, though he refused to look deeply at these feelings. The dome ever flickered above her, and while Spade no longer hissed at him, neither did she welcome him. He was surprised to find he had grown fond of the little beast and was grieved at the loss of her good will even more than his wardrobe.

 

“My king?” Celebredom inquired and after Thranduil waved him in he came to stand before the king.

 

“My lord, it seems the Lady Zaile's fea is restoring slowly. My thought is the protective dome slows her ability to heal as it diverts a portion of her power to its maintenance.”

 

“What do you recommend?”

 

Celebredom shifted, cleared his throat, and appeared nervous, “The dome is not always present, my king. This morning and afternoon, while you rode, it departed. I was able to assist the Lady Zaile and even to move her to a cot as you see.”

 

“Why is it sometimes present?”

 

“If you might indulge me, my lord, I have a theory. Would you step outside the tent?”

 

Thranduil rose and left the tent. Through the flap he saw the dome fade away and Zaile sigh and shift.

 

“Please reenter, my lord.”

 

Thranduil stepped back inside and saw the dome flicker to life over her again. The necklace. It had decided he was a threat.

 

“I mean her no harm.”

 

Silence. Nothing. He did not even feel the entity listening.

 

“Perhaps the king might...”

 

“I will return to the halls. I leave her to your care, Celebredom. My tent and servants shall remain, as well as those members of my guard you deem necessary. Badhor shall lead them. You may keep her in the healing halls for a time on your return.”

 

“Thank you, my king.”

 

Thranduil inclined his head, then left.

 

* * *

 

Zaile woke with a yawn, snuggled down into the covers and listened to Spade purr, her cat rubbing against her exposed head enthusiastically. She felt the delicious disorientation that comes from working to exhaustion at a task well done followed by a deep and restful sleep. She could be with her coven sisters after a night of particularly draining yet satisfying spellcraft. Or home, after smithing at the forge. She had that accomplished well rested feeling, but still felt out of place, fuzzy headed.

 

And so damned hungry. With a sigh she pushed back the covers and looked around. Her heart fell, and disappointment filled her. No one was there. Not her family or her coven, no one. The halls of healing. She was in Thranduil's halls of healing. It was dark, moonlight filtering in from the skylights far above, so probably it was the middle of the night. But, what, no one was even checking on her? Spade rubbed against her lovingly as tears pricked her eyes. She thought that maybe what she did would make a difference to him but apparently not.

 

She slipped out of bed, looked for a robe but found none. At least the gown was long sleeved, long and fairly warm, like a big white warm sack. No slippers, well, but she would eat and then what, go to her quarters? No way. No way was she up for seeing Thranduil, not yet, not in the middle of the night, and not the way he had last been. His cold eyes on her, his sneering voice, and judging by the way she woke, alone and in a bed in the healing halls, he was still really really angry.

 

Not that she blamed him, not really. Her cousin, her former king, had led the warriors that killed his mom. It was still hard to believe it.

 

Food first, problems later. Padding silently through the halls, she came on Celebredom writing at a desk by the light of a single lantern. So, not alone. She was heartened by the sight of him, and by his genuine smile to see her awake.

 

“Lady Zaile! It is good to see you awake!”

 

He stood and gestured for her to sit. Oh but she was so hungry.

 

“Please, Celebredom, I'm so hungry. Is there any food here or could we go to the kitchens?”

 

“Yes, of course.”

 

He stood, opened a cabinet and fetched a loaf of bread, a few pieces of fruit and a bit of cheese. Nowhere near enough, and she was probably eating his lunch.

 

“I, I need a lot more than that and Spade is hungry as well. Also, do you know where my pack is?”

 

“I know not the whereabouts of your pack, but there are none at work in the kitchens...” he trailed off, then straightened at her look of disappointment, “But my own pantry is well stocked. You may come to my quarters and meet my family. They would be honored by your presence, and honored to feed you.”

 

“Are you sure that is ok? I don't want to cause trouble?” Somehow she had a pretty good idea the king would not like that idea.

 

Celebredom smiled and said, “Yes, of course. The king will expect you to be fed. Let us go.”

 

“I, do you have any shoes?”

 

“Slippers, yes, and you look to be much of a size of my youngest daughter. We will find you suitable clothes and shoes until your own may be fetched”

 

Fetched? Oh. She sat down and began to eat as in a daze. The king no longer courted her so she no longer stayed in the royal section. Where would she go? Would she have to leave the kingdom? She felt punched in the gut, breathless.

 

A soft compassionate voice, “I requested of the king that you abide in the healing halls for a time, my lady. I know not the king's intent regarding you, but he has inquired after your healing.” Celebredom paused then added, “Each time he came to the halls, your necklace erected a dome of protection over you, one that in my opinion retarded your healing. Thus, he has limited his visits.”

 

“This bread is really good.” She had no idea what to say to that. But the necklace deeming him a threat was certainly not a good sign.

 

“There is more at my home. Come, let us go, my lady.”

 

“Zaile, just call me Zaile.”

 

“Come, Lady Zaile.”

 

“I'm taking this bread.”

 

“Of course. You may eat as we walk.”

 

Through the halls that were familiar to her, then up and into ones she had never seen. These were simpler, the walls less ornately carved, the furnishings plainer but still elf-work, still beautiful. Finally, they came to a door and Celebredom opened it and ushered her inside the darkened hall.

 

“My love, welcome home,” a feminine voice came from down the hall, and then she saw someone coming towards them with a lantern. Beautiful, as all elves were, with long brown hair, warm brown eyes, and a happy smile. Zaile instantly liked her, and hoped the feeling was mutual. When she saw Zaile, her eyes widened and she bowed and said, “Lady Zaile, I did not think to see you this eve. You are welcome here indeed.”

 

“Lady Zaile, this is my wife Nimhel. My love, she awoke just now and as the halls have little food I brought her home to feed her.”

 

“To the kitchen, husband, and we shall feed her well!” Nimhel laughed, and led the way forward.

 

Nimhel led her into the kitchen and she and Celebredom began to lay out a huge variety of breads, cheeses, fruit, jams, some kind of boiled eggs, a crock of butter, juice, milk, some cured sausage, a haunch of roasted venison, pastries, and for Spade a large bowl of meat chunks. She looked up in surprise at the size of the bowl—how had they known?

 

Celebredom saw her look and smiled, “The king informed me of Spade's dietary needs as well as your own. Eat your fill, the royal purse will provide all you need.”

 

“Thank you,” she ate and thought, as Celebredom and his wife chatted and bustled about the kitchen and their quarters. Occasionally, one or the other would attempt to include her in conversation, but she hadn't the heart to really join in and so they kindly allowed her to simply eat and be as they shared their respective days. It reminded her of home, eating in the kitchen with her parents talking about bills and the neighbors, some new bit of magic her father tried or her mother's conflict with a coven mate. And so she ate and enjoyed a pale shadow of home.

 

Finally she finished and said, “Thank you, that was delicious.” She stood and made as if to help to clean up and put away the food but both insisted she sit and rest.

 

In a flash, the kitchen was as before and Nimhel said, “Husband, might the king allow her to stay here, at least for the night?”

 

Celebredom looked torn, then shook his head, “I have been given leave for her to remain in the healing halls for a time. Should the king decide to visit and find her gone...”

 

“Give word to the guard she stays with us. She may return with you to the halls on the morrow and sleep with us in the evenings.”

 

Zaile didn't want to cause trouble, and as much as she liked Nimhel, the quiet emptiness of the halls appealed to her—no people, no questions.

 

“I'd like to go back to the halls, please, for tonight. I would not wish the king to be disturbed.”

 

Nimhel pursed her lips and said, “The king has created his own disturbance and can manage it himself. You, sweetling, need a real bed to rest in,” she pointed here at Zaile and her brown eyes snapped with irritation.

 

Celebredom sighed, then said, “I will speak with him on the morrow, my love.”

 

“Do. While he and his fellow Sindar are prideful fools, we Silvans can recognize a friend when we see one.”

 

“My love, I am Sindar and I can...”

 

“You are not a fool, therefore you can not be Sindar. When you made the choice to marry me, you were accepted as a Silvan and so you are,”

 

Celebredom smiled, and embraced his wife, “Have done, wife, I will convince the king to allow Zaile to stay with us in the evenings, should she wish to do so.”

 

“Fine,” Nimhel embraced him back, and then turned to Zaile, “You are very welcome here, my lady. You restored my sister's son's hand and we are in your debt for it,” she bowed and said, “our home is your home, for as long as you will.”

 

Zaile felt overwhelmed and simply nodded, on the verge of tears. “I really want to go back to the halls tonight, please. I, I just want to be alone for a time.”

 

Nimhel nodded, her eyes filled with compassion, “Of course. But know that you have a home here, should you wish.”

 

“Thank you,” Zaile bowed and then followed Celebredom to the door, “I know the way to the halls. I don't need you to escort me.”

 

Celebredom seemed to sense her need for solitude and nodded, “If you are certain. I will see you in the halls in mid-morning.” He handed her a bundle, “These are the clothes I spoke of, and a pair of boots that should fit based on your slipper size.”

 

“New boots. They were made for me but the bootmaker cut them too small. I would be pleased to see you wear them,” Nimhel added kindly.

 

Overwhelmed by so much unanticipated kindness, Zaile tried very hard not to cry. After a moment, she said quietly, “Thank you,” then stepped out into the silent dim hall.

 

After she left, Nimhel turned to her husband and said, “The king is a fool.”

 

Her husband, more attuned to court politics perhaps, said, “He is a king.”

 

“You would know more of that than I, and glad I am of it,” said Nimhel with feeling.

 

Celebredom, a wise man, said nothing.

 

* * *

 

 

Zaile made her way through the darkened halls, the lanterns above giving off less light than in the portion of the day more typically spent in work. She passed a few of the guard who greeted her pleasantly and then came back to the healing halls.

 

Once inside, she sought out one of the bathing chambers and undressed and slipped into the heated water. She wasn't dirty, but wanted the comfort of the water, the sense that she was beginning anew. Deliberately blanking her mind, she drifted in the pool for a time, then washed her hair and scrubbed herself from head to toe, emerging as clean as she could make herself, at least physically. Ever since she heard of her family's deeds she felt somehow stained with them, pride turned to shame in an instant. It was hard to process, to believe, though she knew it was true. Unreal. It felt unreal.

 

Once dried, she donned the clothes provided—soft dark gray leggings, a dove gray tunic with white undershirt, a pale gray robe of some sort of soft wool, and gray leather boots that matched the leggings. The colors were peaceful and soothing, the cloth soft and warm. These were nice clothes and she again felt stricken by the kindness of Celebredom and Nimhel. With a quick adjustment spell, the clothes fit perfectly and she felt much more herself than before. Pulling back her damp hair, she thought to dry it before the fire in the main hall of the healing wards.

 

Once she properly lined the settle with cushions so it looked more like a bed than anything, she lay down and let her hair fall down over the arm to the floor onto toweling she lay on the floor. It should be dry fairly quick and would smell of wood smoke and the herbs in the shampoo, a combination she had come to love. Soon she drifted off to sleep. She dreamed of her hair being petted while a deep voice soothed her with a quiet lullaby the words of which she could not understand or remember. When she woke, she found her hair dry and smooth, but considered the dream but a dream, wishful thinking.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil made his nightly pilgrimage to the healing halls to look in on Zaile. A week and a half had she slept and in that time he had spent much time in reflection. Anger still coursed through him at the thought that she was Maglor's subject and his close kin, Irime the daughter of Finwe being aunt to Maglor. Yet he felt compelled to perform this nightly ritual. Never had he felt so divided and he liked it not at all.

 

He had come to no decision regarding her quarters, courting her, indeed no choice regarding her appealed. Should he move her from the royal quarters, he declared their courtship ended. She would be free to be courted by another and he felt certain there were some who would risk his didpleasure to do so. But he could not court her himself, not now, not yet. The anger in him was still too close to the black rage that consumed him at the mountains. She had not known, he counted this true, and yet he felt tricked by her, was enraged to be so tied against his own wishes.

 

He knew himself skilled, but even the greatest warrior might fall in battle. And what if the sea longing came upon him? Eventually he would come to Valinor, one way or the other. How could he face his mother should he wed her? Or his father? He thought of his father's reaction if he learned his son joined to one so tied to Maglor and felt ashamed. _You would put your own desire before loyalty to your family, to your mother? Have you become so weak, so like an Edain to be driven by blind lust? So like a Noldor to allow passion to rule you?_ No, his father would _**not**_ approve. And could she make the trip to Valinor? Yes, likely so. Nienna had answered her so the Valar, at least one, recognized her as an elf. But it was disloyal to wed her. He would not do so. He was king, he had endured much pain in his long life. He would endure this.

 

And yet as his steps drew closer to the healing halls he felt glad of it, to see her even if he could not touch her. Her necklace and Spade were ever watchful and their rejection of him seemed final and complete. That was for the best, certainly, and yet it stung. Spade no longer hissed at him, but gone was the friendly cat of the past. Mostly she ignored him unless he came near and then she turned to face him, watching him closely.

 

He stepped into the halls and made his way to where she slept. She was gone, her bed empty with hastily thrown back covers. He stilled, anger rising in him. Had she fled him in the night? His guard would not have allowed her to leave in naught but a gown, and would have notified him had she insisted. They would have accompanied her into the woods and ensured no harm came to her while word was sent to him. No, she was here somewhere, and awake. His heart hammered to think of what she might say to him, of what he might say to her. He knew not what might happen between them and again he felt anger to be plunged so unexpectedly, so unwillingly into turmoil. He need must leave lest he act in passion as opposed to the coolness of logic.

 

Passing the great room, he saw the fire had been fed and felt the warmth of it. He glanced in and saw her sleeping on a pillow laden settle, her dark hair drying in front of the fire. Her cat was asleep as well, curled upon her belly, a scene of such peace it filled him with longing. As he watched her, a lullaby his mother had sung him came to mind and he linked it to his power as he sang to her, the necklace, and her cat. Let them sleep still, let him touch her one last time.

 

Slowly, carefully he glided towards her as if she were particularly skittish prey and he the hunter. Finally, he stood above her and sang, and all remained as before, no shield, no glaring black furred sentinel. He knelt next to her and lightly stroked her cheek, the skin so soft, so warm, her scent sweet—he had not realized until that moment the dome prevented him from scenting her. Lips as plush and red as summer berries beckoned him. He carded his hands through her hair as he watched the firelight play across her face, so fair and young. She sighed and shifted slightly, and he paused but began again to stroke her hair.

 

Peace filled him, such as he had not felt since last he touched her. Long he lingered and sang to her, until her hair was dry and straight and his fingers had the scent of her. Dawn rose clear and bright and with it the certainty that soon he would be discovered by another. Steeling himself, he stood and assumed the heavy mantle of king again and left to face the duties of the day.

 

* * *

 

When her high school crush dumped her for a curvy demoness, Zaile's mother put her to work. “Work,” she said with a blithe disregard for Zaile's continual weeping, “will help you heal faster and take your mind off that boy. I always thought he was an idiot, and now I know it for certain.” So Zaile had ground potion ingredients weeping, had cleaned the house weeping, had done yard work weeping, practiced with the sword weeping, and finally had realized that weeping mostly made her thirsty and tired and stopped weeping.

 

“Good,” her mother said, “Now, what shall we do for your revenge?”

 

“I don't want revenge,” Zaile said. And she didn't.

 

Her mother sighed, “You are so like your father—soft hearted. Fine.” And so she received her first title—Zaile the Soft Hearted.

 

The boy, she didn't even remember his name now, expected her to attempt to take revenge. He spent the better part of the next year nervous and warded within an inch of his life with expensive defensive magic. Once her heart healed, she began to find his nervousness amusing and so, in a way, felt that this was better than a once and done revenge. Finally the boy, ah, his name had been Desmond. Desmond the demon. Tall, dark haired, muscular, and dumb as a box of rocks. Finally he had confronted her and asked how long she planned to wait for her revenge, told her to just get it over with already. Zaile had the distinct pleasure of looking him up and down and saying, “Revenge? You aren't important enough for that.” But truthfully, she just didn't want to hurt anyone even if they deserved it.

 

It took a while for people to clue in that she didn't have her mother's vicious streak. Oh, her mother never started trouble, but she finished it with a brilliance and cruelty that ensured virtually no one messed with her or her loved ones. Her father was like her; kind, gentle, and willing to overlook most slights. He did not enjoy conflict, not at all, and would avoid it if possible. If not for his wife, he would have likely spent his entire life in the peaceful plane of the Ettuli as opposed to the more violent world of the rest of the Lore, but she claimed him as her mate and they were madly in love. He followed her to New Orleans and joined the coven there.

 

One person hurt him one time. There is a Lore bar close to the Andoain mansion, a real dive but never boring. One night he took her mother there for a drink and some stupid Draiksulia fey made a crack about the Ettuli and her mom slumming and her dad lost his temper and punched him in the face. Her mom would have stayed out of it if it had the fight stayed fair, but the Draik's friends attempted to stab dad with poisoned daggers so she turned them inside out. Alive, but the insides all on the outside, it was certainly an eyecatching spell and brought even the conversation of the most jaded of Lore beings to a halt.

 

Supposedly Nix said, “I knew there was a reason to come tonight! Now that's entertainment!”

 

According to her father, her mother simply helped him up, took a sip of her beer, and coolly surveyed the destruction before declaring, “This is _**my**_ mate.” Reportedly, the Draiks paid a truly huge sum to the coven to get her to, reluctantly, turn them outside in. She required them to apologize to her father first, and by the time they were done croaking their apologies with their dangling bleeding organs her horrified father was urging her to reverse the spell himself.

 

Her mother knew how to make an example.

 

Zaile just wanted to live in peace. But her mother's advice about work had been effective before so she worked. It was full Spring now and elves with old injuries trickled in a few each day, some days more than a few. She healed shattered limbs, restored missing ones, and had the deep pleasure of setting lives to right that had been derailed by evil. This she could do, this small good thing to begin to balance the scale of the evil her family had done. And they were always so nice and so grateful, it was pretty much the best part of her day. The one time the ache of her loss receded and she felt something like happiness.

 

Some days she fell into her bed in the healing wards and went right to sleep, but occasionally she had time and energy left over at the end of the day and so she would practice her own magic until sleep claimed her. She wanted her pack, but not bad enough to go get it, and she wanted to go to the library, but not badly enough to risk running into the king there. She wasn't ready for that confrontation, not at all, and maybe he wasn't either. So she spent her days in the healing halls and in the evenings she either slept in the healing halls or went home with Celebredom to his family.

 

Celebredom arranged for food to be brought to the healing halls for her and so she spent the first couple of weeks after her awakening working, eating, and sleeping, just existing, but not really thinking about her situation. She didn't really talk to anyone; even when she went home with Celebredom she ate silently, cleaned up, and then slipped into the room assigned her and disappeared. She could tell that Celebredom and Nimhel were worried for her, but she just didn't feel like talking to anyone. She didn't feel like doing much of anything. But she worked and made herself useful and hoped her heart would heal eventually.

 

The king came to the healing halls a few times each week, but so far she'd been able to dodge him pretty easily. Spade gave her a heads up in the way she usually gave her a heads up on approaching danger—she bit her. It wasn't fun, but it was effective and so she'd slipped into the bathing area, or gone out to the gardens connected with the healing halls and hid in the bushes, Spade hissing in her ear if she chose a path closer to the king's location and so she was able to avoid him.

 

If he couldn't talk to her then he couldn't say mean things to her and he couldn't tell her their courting was over and that he could not believe he had ever considered someone like her. When she'd prayed to Nienna and he'd coldly sneered, “Did you think they would answer such as _**you**_?” she'd gotten a clear picture of how he felt about her, that she was so disgusting and vile the Valar would not answer her. That he'd been wrong was some consolation, but it still burned. The Valar might regard her, but he for sure didn't.

 

She didn't want to see that on his face again, the way he'd looked at her both then and when he'd told her to prove herself. Cruel and dark, like he hated her and wished her ill. Nope. Time for evasive maneuvers. If he wanted to be mean to her he was going to have to find her first, or order her to come to him. She sure the fuck wasn't signing up for that voluntarily.

 

But she missed him desperately. She tried to tell herself that Thranduil, the one she loved, was gone. That once he'd learned about her family he became a different person with her. But her heart still longed for him, almost as if he were her mate. She was unsure what to do, so she did nothing and filled her days with whatever work she could fine. The healing halls were never more clean and organized, the garden utterly perfect, and she'd even begun using magic to carve nature scenes in the relatively bland walls of the healing halls, anything to reach the exhaustion necessary to sleep.

 

Weeping willows and serene water were her main motifs, scenes of great beauty but of a deep melancholy. The art was the only talking she wished to do, and every elf who saw it was struck with the love and sadness in the work, the sense of loneliness and loss.

 

She looked at the book of maps Celebrimdal gave her and considered leaving, Lothlorien clearly marked and the route pretty straightforward appearing. But he'd been the one to tell the king about her background and so she didn't think that was a good choice. And all these other places, how could she tell which were good, bad, safe or not? Granted, this world so far didn't seem to be too dangerous but at the low end of her powers she could still die here, maybe even at the high end if she were ignorant of some threat or just unlucky. Plus, she wanted to make amends for her family's actions, and at least here she could provide service to pay down that massive debt.

 

So she stayed, though she rarely smiled and then only to assure another's comfort, or in joy to see one who had long been lame walk again. And this continued until Lileal grew tired of waiting and sought her out.

 

She was working in the sun in the garden, trimming the athelas for Celebredom to use in a purifying incense when Lileal came walking down the path radiating purpose. She stood, hands on her hips, and said, “How long do you plan to hide in the halls of healing?”

 

Zaile looked up at her, blinked and said, “I'm not hiding.”

 

“I have daily awaited you in your quarters for the last two weeks and you are well enough to work. I have heard of your work restoring many. And yet you have not returned.”

 

Zaile looked to the side, “I doubt the king wants me there.”

 

“If he did not want you there, he would have removed you and found you different quarters. I assure you, the king is well able to express his wishes. It seems as if _**you**_ do not wish to be there,” Lileal said with some exasperation.

 

“What, no, it's not like that at all!”

 

“Isn't it?”

 

“No! No, it isn't! Is that what people are saying?”

 

Lileal shrugged, “Some. I have heard many things.”

 

“I, the king does not care for me any longer,” Zaile began to cry.

 

“Really? And then what is the source of his increasingly foul mood, one that worsens with each visit to the healing halls where he somehow _**never**_ finds you despite the fact you _**never**_ leave the halls?”

 

Zaile shrugged, and kept clipping the athelas plant.

 

“Lady Zaile, why will you not return?” Lileal sat on the ground next to her and looked at her earnestly, “Do you not care for the king any longer?”

 

Zaile didn't know what to say, she felt out of the habit of talking to others and after Celebrimdal took her confidences to the king she just wasn't sure who she could trust. Better to be silent, to keep her head down, and to just hide. Ok, so she _**was**_ hiding, but what business was it of Lileal's?

 

So they sat for a time, Lileal waiting for an answer with the uncanny patience of an elf and Zaile silent with the hurt that comes from a friend betraying a confidence. Zaile stood and carried her herbs inside and Lileal followed. She tied them in bundles and hung them in the drying room and Lileal helped her silently. She sat to eat and Lileal ate with her. Finally, as they sat before the fire in the great room, everyone else gone for the day, Zaile surrendered.

 

“Yes, I love him still. But he does not love me and I can not bear to see him look and speak to me as he did.”

 

Lileal sighed, “So that part is true then.”

 

“What part?”

 

“That the king was cold to you and cruelly pushed you to prove yourself to him.”

 

“Yes, but he had reason.”

 

Lileal paused then said, “You are of the Noldor and Maglor is your king.”

 

“Was my king—I didn't know what he had done. I won't have him for my king any longer. But yes, I am part Noldor and he is my blood cousin. My grandmother Irime is his aunt,” she paused, “I didn't know my own history, what had happened. But I guess Celebrimdal made it sound like I knew, I don't know.”

 

“Celebrimdal? What does he had to do with this matter? Tuel the councilor told the king.”

 

Zaile looked up in surprise, “What, how the hell did she know? Did Celebrimdal tell her?”

 

Lileal leaned in and shook her head, “I heard she saw you going to meet Celebrimdal in the library for a lover's tryst and that she heard you talking about your family with your lover.”

 

“What, that's bullshit! I don't even find him attractive and I stopped by to show him the necklace I made for the king. He told me the necklace could only be Noldor work and I said I didn't know, that I wasn't sure what branch of elves I came from. Then he said I looked a lot like an elf he used to know, Irime. I told him that was my grandmother. Then he pulled out a genealogy and I showed him all the family members I knew. Maglor was marked dead and I told him that he wasn't dead, he was actually the king of the Ettuli. He freaked out and told me there was a bunch of bad blood between the Sindar and the Noldor, then had me read multiple histories. I realized that my family was filled with murderers and that my cousin the king led the attack Thranduil's mother died in. I was totally horrified, just sick, I still am, and I immediately said I had to tell the king. But the next day he was too busy, and then the day after that, and the day after that, and then I realized he already knew. I thought Celebrimdal told him. What, so you're saying she spied on me for the king? And she told him I was meeting Celebrimdal to hook up? What the fuck?”

 

Lileal absorbed this rushed tale and said, “So, you think the king rejects you because you are Noldor?”

 

“I know he does. Really, Lileal, he thinks I'm awful. I prayed to the Valar and he said, basically, 'Did you really think they'd answer someone like you?' Then he told me I should prove myself to him, but when I did, he was gone when I woke up. He doesn't want me.”

 

“Then why hasn't he moved your quarters?”

 

“I think he wants to tell me personally, to sneer at me and see the pain in my face. He wants to hurt me.”

 

Lileal sighed, “The king's temper is famous, but once past it is over. He will not apologize, but it is not a reflection of his usual feelings.”

 

“I think my situation is a little more complex than just a bad dinner or some clothes he doesn't like.”

 

Lileal said nothing for a time, simply sat with her and watched the fire. Zaile thought on what Tuel might have said and considered that perhaps the king was angry for reasons that had nothing to do with her family. If he believed her to have been unfaithful with Celebrimdal that would explain his actions as well. She knew he had been jealous of the other elf, but had found it so ridiculous she hadn't hesitated to go to the library in the middle alone with the object of his jealousy. That did look bad by the standards of this place, now she thought about it, and who knew what Tuel had said to the king.

 

“So, Tuel told him I was meeting Celebrimdal for a, a, lover's tryst?”

 

Lileal turned to look at her and said, “I don't know for sure, but that's what I heard. I do know it was her who spoke to him.” She sighed, “What were you thinking to meet him alone in the middle of the night? Surely you must know how that would appear?”

 

“No, not really. He's old and he calls me child, he's like an uncle. I just wanted someone to look at the necklace I made the king and I saw the light on and stopped. I'd just finished it and I wanted to show it to someone.”

 

“He never takes it off.”

 

“What?”

 

“The king. He never takes your necklace off. I heard he even bathes and sleeps in it. He loves you still, I am sure of it.”

 

“Ok.” Zaile sat for a time, then stood and said, “Let's go then.”

 

Lileal smiled and together they gathered what little Zaile had and headed back to the royal quarter.

 


	23. Doors and Paths

Zaile and Lileal walked through the halls and as they grew closer to the entrance to the royal quarter she grew increasingly nervous. Lileal seemed confident she would be admitted, and had been awaiting her return. Surely Thranduil wouldn't have Lileal waiting for her if he didn't mean for her to return?

 

As she approached the royal quarter, she saw a few Sindar elves lingering in the halls as they often did after lunch, blond haired females whispering behind their hands to each other as she passed. The Silvans that made up the bulk of the rangers and guards had treated her no differently or had even been kinder, had smiled more often, and thanked her for her help. It seemed all of them had a relative or friend she had healed and they were grateful and kind to her.

 

But the upper court close to the royal quarters was mostly Sindar and they seem to feel quite differently. A few smiled at her and greeted her kindly, but most ignored her or chose to watch quietly, curiously, as she made her way closer to the royal quarter. There were four guards before the closed door and only one did she recognize—the elf who was ravaged by a warg and nearly died. He was Sindar, as were two of the others, and one had the red-brown hair that only the Silvans had.

 

They were expressionless until she was with six feet of them and then the leader, a tall blond Sindar male said, “Lady Zaile, long have you stayed within the healing halls. I would advise you to return there unless summoned.”

 

A gasp arose behind her, and whispering.

 

Lileal spoke angrily, “The king has appointed rooms for the Lady Zaile within the royal quarters. I, her lady in waiting, await her in these quarters by order of the king. You know this for you have seen me come and go this very day.”

 

“That you are her lady in waiting, that I know. But how long have you awaited her? A month? More? It has been long since we have seen the Lady Zaile within these doors. Her place has been the healing halls, and there she shall abide unless it pleases the king to say otherwise. He is hunting today, but will possibly deign to attend to the Lady Zaile on his return.”

 

More whispering, the quiet chime of feminine laughter, unbearable.

 

“Just let me get my pack. Some of my clothes,” Zaile said quietly. Tears began to trail down her face and she was furious with herself she could not stop them. Never had she been so humiliated.

 

The leader opened his mouth, but before he could speak the one whose life she saved spoke up, “I will escort you to your quarters, lady. Here, take my arm.”

 

He offered her his arm, the Silvan elf joining him as well, and after a long moment of locking eyes with their fellow guards, they opened the doors to the royal quarter and allowed her inside.

 

Once inside, the first guard said, “My lady, I am Elglir. You saved my life,” he bowed his head in deep respect.

 

Zaile looked up at him as tears trailed down her face and said, “I remember you. You wanted to live so badly. I admired your determination.”

 

The Silvan elf said, “I am Ameron. You healed my wife Braigiel's leg. She was lame for four hundred and sixty two years. Not a night has passed since her healing that we have not danced with joy, my lady.”

 

He smiled, then stood next to the door, “Go. Fetch what you need. We will await you.”

 

“Thank you, Ameron, Elglir.”

 

Lileal was silent next to her, but Zaile could feel her all but vibrating with fury. Together they walked to her quarters, and she quickly packed. She removed the clothing she had borrowed from Celebredom and carefully restored them back to their original size, making the boots just slightly larger, hopefully large enough for Nimhel but not too large. She reached in her pack and called for the pearls and slipped two large golden yellow pearls into the boots thinking Nimhel would be both pleased and irritated that she gave her a such a gift.

 

“Lileal, would you return these to Celebredom for me?”

 

“Of course, my lady.”

 

She dressed in leather leggings, her sturdiest boots, a leather tunic over a linen shirt and added a lighter tunic to her pack in case it warmed up. Then she pulled out a soft wool travel cloak, a warm robe made of some soft material, and considered if there were any other clothes she absolutely needed.

 

“You're leaving, aren't you?” Lileal said softly behind her.

 

“Yes. I have to.”

 

Lileal took a deep breath, let it out, and said, “Let me help you.”

 

After they packed, Lileal helping her to select clothes, shoes, and under garments for any weather she might face, Zaile asked, “How long before the king returns?”

 

“Hours, easily. He never returns before the sun sets and it is early in the afternoon yet.”

 

Zaile nodded, one quick decisive nod. “I need food for the trip. Spade can probably hunt for meat, but any dried or fresh meat you can get would be appreciated just in case there is no game. I'll stock up on water at the river outside, should be able to find berries in the woods this time of year, but I need bread and cheese, whatever you think I can get. I want to pay for it.”

 

“My brother works in the kitchens. He'll give me whatever I ask for.”

 

“I'll tell the pack to let you use it. You just stick whatever in there and the pack will organize it and keep it fresh. You don't even need to cover it. If it's hot or cold, it will keep it that way.” Zaile reached into the pack and called forth a pouch of coins, “Here, pay him whatever you think is fair.”

 

Lileal shook her head, “Nay, my lady, the kitchens are open to any elf who lives in the halls and all may take what they need.”

 

“If you're sure...”

 

“I am,” Lileal said firmly.

 

Zaile reached into her pack, called up all her treasure, anything she could think of that would be of value in this realm. It spread over a portion of her bed, not a large pile but valuable. She looked through it and selected a thin platinum chain with a single pure brilliant deep blue sapphire bezel set in the middle and flanked by small bezel set diamonds. The necklace had been hers when she was younger, before she froze into her immortality, and had a powerful healing charm cast on it. It would make Lileal a little more likely to survive this brutal world.

 

“In my world, sapphire represents fidelity and friendship, and diamond represents eternity,” she handed Lileal the necklace, “I want you to have this because you have been my friend in this place and will always be my friend. The necklace has a healing charm, a really good one--if you'd been wearing it when you were shot with those arrows, it would have pushed them out and healed you. But it is only good for about one use a month, one major use anyway, or lots of minor uses. The lighter the sapphire, the less healing it holds.”

 

She hugged a protesting Lileal and then said, “No, take it. It will make me happy knowing that you are a bit safer.”

 

Lileal hugged her back, and then said, “Thank you, my lady.”

 

After a moment, they parted and Lileal said, “Are you ready to go to the kitchens?”

 

“No. I want write the king a letter first.”

 

Lileal nodded, looking somber, then said, “I will go to the kitchens then.”

 

After she left, Zaile considered what to write, then decided to simply say what she wanted and not worry about eloquence. She glanced at the riches on her bed, and save for those things her family gave her and enough coin to navigate this realm, she piled it all on the table in the front room. Pearls spilled across the embroidered runner, the emerald hair clip he gave her winked in the light, starshine gems shone, the mithril shirt draped over a chair, dragon gold ruddy in the light, a cut diamond as big as an egg and utterly flawless, and a bag of mixed rubies, sapphires, and black opals, all at least as big as a man's thumbnail.

 

Last of all, the ring she made him sat on the letter. It read:

 

_Thranduil,_

 

_I love you, but I can not stay here. I planned to work and prove myself to you and make up for the evil my family did to yours, but I can not. If I stay, I will become someone else, someone I can't respect. I have to leave._

 

_I have heard rumors that Tuel told you I was meeting Celebrimdal as a lover. This is false. You are the only person I love, and I think you may be the only one I will ever love. But you no longer love me, not really, or at least not in a way that will lead to happiness for either of us. I don't blame you, I know my family did terrible things to yours, but I don't think it will change anything for the better for me to stay here. I think it will just make us both miserable, more and more miserable, until anger leads us both into hate and darkness. I'm not living like that._

 

_If I ever find a way home, I will tell the Ettuli our full history, and I will confront Maglor with his deeds. He is no longer my king._

 

_I'm leaving this treasure for you as a way to prove that I plan to make amends for the damage my family has done yours. I know this is not much in recompense for a life as precious as your mother's, but perhaps you can use it to fortify your halls and equip your people, save some lives with it. I will send more, and try to make amends for my family's misdeeds, but I am not sure how to begin. The Valar will lead me, I think. It isn't exactly my debt, I know that, but I am the only one here to pay it so I'll do my best. Maybe that's why I ended up in this realm to begin with. I don't really know._

 

_The ring is your betrothal ring. I know you don't want it, but there is no other I would give it to—I made it for you._

 

_I'm sorry I didn't speak to you as soon as I learned my history. I was afraid of losing you. Maybe had I spoken to you immediately it would have been different; but I don't know. I wish I hadn't hurt you, it was never my intent to do anything but good towards you and your people._

 

_Love,_

 

_Zaile_

 

She sat and felt empty and shattered, like a broken castle the wind blew through freely. Where would she go? She would ask Lileal's advice when she came back. Would the guards help her? Maybe.

 

She stood and took one last look about her quarters, then stepped out to go speak to them. As soon as they saw how she was dressed, both their faces fell. Maybe she should pick a different cloak, one that didn't scream, “I'm outta here, bitches?”

 

“Lady Zaile, you are dressed for travel,” Elglir said somberly.

 

“Yes. I am leaving.”

 

Both males looked at each other, then straightened, “The wood is too dangerous to traverse alone, my lady,” Elglir again.

 

“Did you march to the mountains?”

 

“I did, my lady,” Ameron spoke.

 

“I have almost that much power again. I will be fine. Please, help me to decide where to go. I can not bear to stay here.”

 

Both agreed reluctantly and she pulled out her book of maps. They discussed Dale, Erebor, Lothlorien, Imladris, Gondor, the Grey Havens, she learned a lot in that hour. Lothlorien was sounding like her best option, though it was rather close to Greenwood for her liking, until Elglir said, “Lord Elrond rules Imladris. Long has he ruled, nigh in age to Thranduil is he though young compared to the Lady Galdriel. He was Maglor's stepson, after the attack on the Havens”

 

Elrond knew her cousin and her family history first hand. Imladris moved to the top of the list, but she said, “Lothlorien seems like the best option. Lady Galadriel, do you think she will welcome me?”

 

“Yes, she is of the Noldor herself and a lady of great learning and magic.”

 

“I think I'll head to Lothlorien then.”

 

They took her map and helped her to best plot her course. Then Lileal arrived and together they prepared Zaile as best they could. Finally, it was time for her to go if she was going to have any sort of head start on Thranduil. Though that was silly. He likely would not come after her at all.

 

She shouldered her pack and lifted her chin. If there'd been gossip before, it was certain to hit epic proportions now.

 

Fuck it. She was out of this place.

 

Elglir and Ameron opened the doors and took their posts again. There was, not a crowd exactly, but certainly the halls were fuller than normal. Lifting her head, she sauntered forth with Lileal at her side. A wave of whispers followed her, but many faces looked shocked and grieved to see her so obviously leaving. It was almost as if it hadn't occurred to them that she would leave if they and their king were mean to her.

 

Nope. It was probably the laughter that tipped the scales--that was just so _**utterly**_ mean. Nope. There was no way she could stay here the way it was now.

 

“Lady Zaile, are you leaving?”

 

She didn't recognize the voice so she ignored them and kept walking.

 

Soon they came to the great gates of the halls. She'd have been perfectly fine slipping out through the stables, but more elves kept emerging to watch, and as more of the common folk joined the small crowd, the kitchens emptying, the rangers, it seemed like the halls were suddenly full of people whose faces reflected the grief they felt at her departure. Whispers spread, and she overheard a few.

 

“Turned away at the entrance...”

 

“No, not the Lady of the...”

 

“Surely the king...”

 

There was more, but she tuned it out and ached to be away from this place.

 

* * *

 

Badhor was resting in the arms of his beloved when the pounding at his door began. Some emergency then, for he had surely made clear they were not to be disturbed for less. He rose, kissed his husband Tiron who sighed and slumped back against the sheets in annoyance. He was a scribe and less than fond of Badhor's sometimes dangerous and irregular hours.

 

“I love you, Tiron, and assure you I will rush back to your arms.”

 

“In one piece.”

 

“Always, my love.”

 

Tiron rose and assisted him, fetching the cloak he had slung across the room in his haste to join his love in bed, then kissed him gently and sent him forth.

 

“Yes,” Badhor snapped as he looked at the cluster of worried guards.

 

“The Lady Zaile is leaving.”

 

“Tell me all,” he began walking and realized he did not know which exit.

 

“She makes for the Doors.”

 

“Where is the king? Does he know?”

 

“Hunting. A messenger has been sent to find him.”

 

As they walked, the guard told him of the lady's humiliation at the entrance to the royal quarters. The king had made no such order to him, and as he spoke with the other guards none had received such orders either. The king could have left orders with the guard on leaving, but such a momentous order would normally go through himself and those of higher rank than him. None had heard such orders.

 

“Who refused her?”

 

“Bronon refused her and Nemen supported him.”

 

Bronon was the lead in the quartet, and he had been vocal in his certainty that the king would not continue to court a Noldor, believing and repeating all the worst tales regarding the Lady Zaile. Nemen was young and inexperienced; it made sense he would follow Bronon.

 

“The rest of the guard?”

 

“Ameron and Elglir defied Bronon to allow her to fetch her things as she asked.”

 

But they did not convince her to stay. Perhaps the king _**had**_ instructed Bronon as lead, but it seemed unlikely. More likely that Bronon took it upon himself to fulfill what he imagined were the king's wishes.

 

Swiftly they made their way to the Doors and saw the Lady Zaile approach them and pause. Badhor made his way through the crowd and called, “Lady Zaile, hold my lady, I beg of you.”

 

She turned toward him and her aspect was grieved and resolute, as one who had made a difficult decision but now was determined in their path.

 

“Am I a prisoner, Badhor, but in the nicest of cages?” Her voice was soft and filled with sorrow.

 

“No, my lady, you are not.” He turned to the guards, “Open the Doors, by order of the king. The Lady Zaile is a guest of the realm and may stay or go as she wills.”

 

The doors opened and he watched as his king's beloved walked over the bridge then down to the river, seemed to fill her pack with water, then stood and looked up at the Doors one last time. She waved to him and smiled, then Spade grew greatly in size and she mounted and sped away into the woods.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil hunted with Galadas and Tuel in the woods closer to Erebor. The game was healthier and more plentiful here than in the portion of the woods closer to Dol Guldur, and so far they had brought down two full grown bucks, one by Tuel and one by him. Galadas was cursing his luck and vowing to bring down the next while Tuel smugly sat atop her mount and said nothing. Her skill with the bow was second to none, but she might relent and allow Galadas the next kill as she had deferred to himself, innocently claiming that she had not spotted the buck.

 

Both attempted to cheer him and were patient and understanding of his silence. Little had he to say, and he wished for his son more than ever. They often did not agree, his son far more tender hearted and kind than himself, filled with the optimism of youth. But his son would speak truth as he saw it, and Thranduil longed for one who would be honest with him as no courtier would be.

 

They paused by a stream and he dismounted and splashed water on his face. The day was hot, summer fast approaching.

 

“My king, might I speak with you?” Tuel's voice, hesitant. Strange—normally she spoke boldly or not at all.

 

He stood, waited.

 

“My king, I bid you listen to my counsel. I observed the Lady Zaile at the mountains, and have been present in the healing halls as she worked. Though she be of the Noldor, I think her more like to Finarfin and his folk than the sons of Feanor. I deem the lady fair of heart, as do many,” at that she bowed her head and walked away to rejoin Galadas.

 

Thranduil looked after her in astonishment. Out of all his councilors, Tuel was the one he thought least likely to ever accept Zaile. Galadas was forgiving, kind, ever ready to extend mercy though fierce in battle. That he would accept the lady did not surprise Thranduil, but Tuel was quite different. A merciless opponent, known to hold a grudge for millennia, and he could not remember once in his long memory that she had ever spoken truly well of one of the Noldor. The closest she had come was to describe the Lady Galadriel as, “a reliable ally in war,” though she did have a good opinion of Elrond whose, “good Sindar blood outweighed the rest.”

 

He mounted his elk and they rode out to continue the hunt, the king quiet and deep in thought.

 

* * *

 

The forest was quiet and peaceful, the elf road narrow but easy to traverse. Having made her decision, Zaile felt a sense of excitement and purpose. The land bloomed with wildflowers and bird song filled the air, the trees fully leafed out since the last time she had been outside. It was shocking that so much had changed and it felt good to breath free air, to be outside under the sun. Spade made good time as she ran fast as any horse and Zaile relaxed as she detected no one following them. After a while, the path wound upward and through mighty oaks, similar to Miriel's oak and she saw the edge of a Silvan settlement in the distance. Further on, a group of rangers watched her curiously and waved as she passed them.

 

Apparently, she really wasn't a prisoner and Thranduil had kept his word about telling his people she could come and go as she pleased. It saddened her, this reminder of when she had his good will, and sped her on as she knew she probably didn't have it any longer. As the sun began to dip in the sky, Spade put on a burst of speed as if she felt much the same. They could probably continue in the dark, Spade's night eyesight being excellent, but they would soon reach a portion of the path where the map indicated spiders were present, assuming this was not one of the places she had already cleared. The rangers knew these forests and she'd followed their lead on past journeys as it all looked the same to her. Now, she wished she'd used a mapping spell of some kind for her excursions because she had little sense of where she was in the forest.

 

The path itself was warded against any evil thing, a strong protective spell that would definitely repel the spiders and might even repel the orcs as well. Of course, the problem with the path was that Thranduil's people, assuming he sent anyone after her, would know it better than her. But they would know the forest just as well. No, the path was her best option and she would just have to hope that she either made good enough time with her head start to outrun any pursuers, or that he sent no pursuers.

 

As the sun fully set and darkness fell over the forest, they left the oaks behind and she saw slender beeches glimmering in the moonlight. Spade ran swiftly through the moon-silvered trees and she pulled her cloak more tightly around her as the coolness of night fell.

 

* * *

 

Galadas was happier now he had caught a buck and they headed homeward now. The pack horses were laden with meat for the kitchens, and the sun indicated it was late afternoon turning toward evening. His guard began a song but he had not the heart to join them, his thoughts full of Zaile.

 

At first, he thought his luck simply wretched that each time he came to the healing halls she was impossible to find. Oh, had he inquired Celebredom would have sent for her, but he wanted the meeting to be chance, informal, and not required. After a week, he knew her to be hiding from him. He did not press, of two minds regarding it. He missed her deeply, her physical presence and her lively mind, but he considered he might yet be poor company, his anger over Maglor close to the surface but fading.

 

He loved her, but thought he should not. And yet, he loved her. Even Tuel felt some affection for her, or at least respect. Perhaps she might win over his parents should they come to Valinor. He thought of how his father's stubborn refusal to submit to the Noldor led to the deaths of so many of his people at the Battle of Dagorlad. His father thought his actions right and good, justified. Thranduil had thought so as well at the time, though he had concerns regarding their armament and training. Compared to the warlike Noldor, their people were peaceful, the Greenwood a far less dangerous place in that time than now, and they were less armed and armored for war.

 

But his father would not follow a Noldor, saying their paths, “led ever to ruin.” It was difficult to imagine that 2/3 of their people would have fallen in battle had they permitted the Noldor to bear the brunt of the charge. So many dead, the ground was more blood and flesh than dirt.

 

Even Tuel saw her as fair, her light and kindness that obvious. In the last two weeks, since she awoke, she had served tirelessly restoring his people to full health.

 

Perhaps she hid from him and did not return to the royal quarter out of fear. Perhaps her fear was justified and perhaps his anger was not.

 

He looked up from his musings as a guard, Elglir, rode up and called to him, “My king, the Lady Zaile has departed from the halls arrayed as for a journey.”

 

“Who accompanied her?”

 

“No one, my lord.”

 

“What path did she take?”

 

“Our path, and rangers have seen her on it and reported sighting her. She makes good time, my lord, based on reports.”

 

Of course she did, he thought wryly, she was no fool. But these were his woods.

 

“Signal to them to track her but to remain unseen. Ensure her safety, but do not interfere with her progress. I will speak with her myself,” he paused and then turned back to Elglir, “Was there ought that sparked this decision?”

 

“Yes, my lord. She sought to return to the royal quarters and Bronon refused her,” he straightened and lifted his chin somewhat defiantly, “When she requested to retrieve her pack I and Aemeron escorted her inside and saw to her needs.”

 

“Bronon had no instructions from me to do anything of the sort! Galadas, Tuel,” he turned to his councilors, “see that Bronon is held pending my return. Make it public, as his humiliation of the lady was public.” No wonder she left after such an insult. Even had he wished to end their courting never would he have done so with such crudity, such a lack of basic decency.

 

“Yes, my king,” Galadas replied. Tuel merely nodded.

 

He quickly shifted provisions and a couple of water skins to the elk, a cloak for the night, and made for the elf path across land. The elk and he knew these woods, every tree and thicket in them. They needed no path and he needed no sleep. With that advantage he should be able to overtake her before she exited his woods and was lost in the larger and even more dangerous world. Most likely she made for Lothlorien as there she knew Celebrimdal, but between her and that land were dangers of which she had little knowledge. While she was powerful, there was a limit to her power and once reached she was vulnerable. Her relative inexperience put her at risk also, and were she to face a powerful enemy at the waning of the moon he feared greatly for her.

 

Bronon had much to answer for, Thranduil's wrath kindled at the incredible presumption of a mere guard to decide his wishes regarding Zaile. He would deal with him once he returned, and make the punishment fitting to the action once he spoke with him.

 

They rode, the elk cutting through trees, brush, eventually intercepting the elf path a few hours after sunset. He rode, knowing this land and ever urging the elk to go faster though careful not to tax the great beast too much. 

 

* * *

 

Spade ran through the night, Zaile clinging to her back as the forest grew even darker, thicker, the light visible rarely now through the thick canopy of the tangled gnarled trees. She thought it was close to morning, but she wasn't sure. They'd run for the whole first day, that part of the trip not bad. And this night had started out ok, moonlight shining through the trees in patches, pretty and soothing to her despite how tired she was. But the further they ran, the narrower the path became and the more the forest changed, and not for the better.

 

This part of the forest was far darker both visually and magically, and she sensed only the light of the path beneath them. The trees were alive, she could feel the life in them, but it was corrupted somehow, unhealthy, twisted by a greater evil than she had sensed so far. The human spellcaster, the one that should be dead but was not, was not strong enough to create this much devastation. At most that thing had felt a few centuries old, not long at all. This was the work of a far more powerful being, one she almost certainly would not be able to defeat even at the peak of her magic under this world's moon.

 

Again, there was a purity of evil she had never encountered before. Once, she met Lothaire, the supposed pinnacle of evil, and though, yes, his soul was dark there was a bright light of love for his mate that shone forth. He could be considered evil, there was just cause for such a description, but he was not pure evil, more ruthless and selfish regarding his aims, lacking empathy for others and enjoying his domination over them. But this, this was _**evil**_ , a negation of life, an antagonism to everything living and good, it's only aim destruction and despair. It made her feel sick with the sense of it and the darkness only deepened the further she rode from Thranduil's halls.

 

She'd be quiet, use as little magic as possible and store as much as she could just in case this thing, whatever it was, found and attacked her. The problem with magic, at least active magic, was that anything with magic could sense its use and often the general location of the use, depending on the distance and strength of the magic and ability of the being. There were ways to mask magic use, but she was not terribly skilled with them. Better to use as little as possible and hope the path masked what little she did use with its magical signature. The magic of the path seemed to extend out approximately three feet on either side and beyond that she could sense dark magics of confusion, despair, a normal person would be lost in no time should they stray from the path. Even she would have to cast a shield around her and Spade to remain clear of mind, and that would be like a flashing sign saying, “Magic, magic right here!” Alone, with no backup, that would be immensely foolish.

 

Granted, the magic was old so the one who cast it might be long gone. But that one, she shivered at the idea of ever meeting them. Nope. The path for her and Spade. Luckily, Spade did not tire like a natural being fueled as she was partly by magic, but they still had to stop and eat occasionally. So far she had caught what sleep she could on Spade's back, not the best sleep despite how closely they were connected. but not the worst either. Soon she would have to actually stop and sleep, at least a few hours, but the forest felt so threatening she wasn't sure she could unless she was utterly exhausted. Between Spade, her necklace, and her own nearly peak power she should be able to sleep in safety but it sure didn't feel like that, not at all.

 

Briefly she considered turning back to the safety of Thranduil's halls. Maybe she could stay in one of the Silvan communities? They seemed to like her and accept her. But she knew it wouldn't be that simple. Plus, the humiliation of her rejection stung, the sheer meaness of it. She knew he had a temper and ridiculous amounts of pride, pretty much like any other king, but that door thing, fuck that. She wasn't ready to think about that though, her emotions still too close to the surface, disappointment, pain, and really quite a lot of anger. No way she was spending her ride through the creepiest forest ever ruminating on the most humiliating experience of her life. That just seemed like an invitation to evil.

 

So she thought of her family until she realized that made her homesick and sad as well, and then she had a good cry over how fucked she currently was, how she didn't deserve this, and finally ended up laughing at her predicament because it was just that shitty.

 

They stopped to eat briefly and as she leaned against Spade, she said, “This is a total country western song. Not new country, like the happy drinking song country, no, this is old country my life sucks. I'm homeless, kinda lost, lost my true love, have no idea what I'm supposed to do, my family's screwed up, yep, I'm in a country song. All I need is a broke down truck, bad weather, and tequila or a ton of beer.”

 

Spade chuffed and rubbed her head against her, purring in a soothing way.

 

“But I have you, Spade, and that makes it ok. I'm so glad you are with me.”

 

Spade purred louder, the sound soothing Zaile as they ate. She was so tired she considered just falling to sleep, but she really wanted to get across the Enchanted River before that. It seemed like a good goal, and she thought they were close. Also, it would probably be a good place to sleep. The magic of the path and the river combined should provide enough cover to allow her to cast a concealment spell as well as a protection spell and have a full night sleep in relative safety. She would probably need it, considering the direction this forest was going. If it got ever darker the further she went from Thranduil's halls, well, she would not be able to sleep for fear.

 

Hopefully, the world as a whole wasn't that bad. Probably not as Celebrimdal spoke of Lothlorien as if it were a nice place, and the guards seemed to think the place where Elrond was, Imladris, was nice. Regardless, she was going to find out and, with luck, even survive it. The wicked presence in this forest sure gave her pause when she considered navigating this world at the low end of her powers, but she should be out of the forest before she began to lose much power. Her peak would be in a couple of days and then she'd start to decline again but still be pretty powerful. It would be really good if the world as a whole was less dangerous than this place felt. Really really good.

 

They rode further, night turning to dimly filtered day. The forest seemed unending, and it began to feel close and stuffy even though it was late spring and not yet summer. Finally, late in the second day of her journey, she saw the river. About 30-40 feet wide and reeking of magic even at this distance, perfect to hide her magical signature. She'd probably pre-load some spells here and do some work while she hid. Lileal had positively loaded her pack with food, probably enough for her and Spade for a couple of months, so she wasn't worried about time as much as she was the waning of her power and followers. Thranduil might not love her, but she felt pretty sure he'd be none too happy she just left. Though so far no one seemed to have followed her at all. She absolutely did not feel disappointed by that.

 

There was a ferry of sorts there, a boat big enough for her and Spade's normal form easily but no oars. Well, she could provide the propulsion and the river would mask her use of magic. She untied the boat, got in followed by Spade who leapt onto her lap to avoid the bit of water in the bottom of the boat, and they quickly crossed to the other side and carefully exited.

 

She thought about it for a second, and sent the boat back, used magic to retie it, hoping any pursuers might think she had left the path for the forest. She made camp right at the very edge of the path. Thankfully it was wider here next to the ferry, the protection extending out five feet on either side though she could see the path quickly narrowed again. She better sleep a solid eight hours then, as she would probably not get a chance to really sleep for several days ride according to the map.

 

She found a fairly flat spot up the bank and cast a concealment charm, as powerful as she could get away with, and a shield of protection over her and Spade. They would be hidden from all but the most powerful magic and the caster would need to know the exact spot to look, so pretty much impossible to find. It was a costly spell in power, but she had plenty stored up. Well worth a good night's sleep. Pulling out her sleeping bag, she sat on top of it, watched as the last bit of daylight occasionally shone through the dense branches to glimmer over the dark water's smooth water. Before the sun completely set, she reached into her pack and thought of sweets, hoping Lileal had packed some.

 

A cornucopia of options presented themselves on her sleeping bag, so many she cut off the call before they spilled off the edge of her sleeping bag. Little cakes, cookies, pies big and small, pastries, so many choices. She went with a still hot blackberry pie, put the rest back, and sat eating it feeling momentarily close to the friend who had made sure she would have some sweetness on her journey. After the sun set and darkness ruled, she slipped into her sleeping bag and with Spade snuggled next to her and purring fell into a deep and restful sleep.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil and his rangers stood next to the ferry for the Enchanted River. All signs of Zaile's passing ended here, but there was no sign of her anywhere. They had searched the surrounding woods, up and down the river, nothing. Had she fallen in? Had both of them fallen in? Unlikely. Had they tried to swim it as the boat had no oars? Also unlikely—he warned her of the river and she was no fool.

 

Though they had run without stopping for sleep, he knew that based on the time they made as he arrived at this spot nigh five hours behind them. He'd thought to catch them within the first day, his elk swift, surefooted, and aware of every small shortcut, yet here it was very early morning on the third day. Assuredly, they had rode hard and some of his rangers reported seeing Zaile asleep as she rode. Could they have been so tired they ran though the dark and into the river?

 

Possible. The forest in this part of the wood was thick, the branches blocking out nearly all light. Had they reached the river after sunset it was possible they rode into it without thought, Zaile asleep and Spade possibly not recognizing the risk. Had her cat been with them when he warned her of the river? He could not remember.

 

Despair filled him to think her dead, drowned and lost. So kind, so fair, to come to such an end in his land. He would not think it. He could not.

 

When the sun rose they would look again, and then they would search the along the banks. Rarely, one who fell in would wash up alive.

 

* * *

 

Zaile slept through the night and on into the day. Woke briefly, felt tired still, and kept on sleeping. Grief, stress, the long ride, maybe because of all of these she slept hard well into the following night and woke in the dark, the faintest bit of moonlight glinting on the dark water and occasionally piercing the thick canopy above her. Far in the distance she could hear hounds and thought that someone must be hunting. Then it occurred to her they might be hunting _**her.**_

 

That was frankly chilling. She calmed and centered herself, then reached out to try to sense anything around her. Impossible. It was like trying to hear a whisper while standing next to the speakers at a death metal concert—the river was just that loud magically.

 

Back to sleep then, wait until dawn when she would be able to see and then decide what to do. She would remain hidden until she broke the shield. Snuggling back down, she petted Spade until sleep claimed her again.

 

When next she woke, the forest and path were dimly lit with the light of day. No one was there and she heard no one about. Quickly, she took care of her physical needs, used a quick cleaning spell to refresh herself and her clothes, then packed up and fed Spade. The cat scented the wind after eating, chuffed and butted her head against Zaile as if to get her to hurry.

 

“One second, Spade, first I'm going to cast for stealth and concealment, mask our trail.”

 

The cat chuffed in agreement, and she cast the charm hoping the river masked the use of power. Once cast, the spell was passive and should draw little attention. Done. Spade crouched down to allow her to easily mount and they were off.

 

As they rode, the path narrowed, growing ever more dim, rank smelling with mold. These creepy pale fungi clustered under the twisted trees and scrawny black squirrels skittered through the undergrowth. It was stuffy too, humid, rain periodically drizzling down but never enough to clear out the humidity. Just enough to leave her damp and truly miserable, the dirt and the repulsive gnats sticking to her skin. At night, great vile moths brushed against her face as Spade ran, leaving the dust of their corrupted wings over her. Filthy, she was damp, and sweaty, and could not use magic to clean herself and dared not waste water for it.

 

She really hated this forest, at least this part.

 

It was impossible to sleep when they stopped. She would try, and then start awake as hideous cries would echo across the path, something dying out there and something bellowing in pleasure over catching a meal.

 

The magic of the path held strong, though it grew ever narrower, now no more than three feet wide as it wound around ancient trees hung with lichen. Next to the path, the trees were usually still alive, less twisted, and the pale evil looking fungus did not grow on them. But farther out the sense of death, rot, the antithesis of life held sway.

 

It was too late to turn back, but had she known this was what awaited her...no, she still would have left. Probably.

 

She was more scared that she had ever been in her life. There was no escape for her if whatever poisoned these woods rolled up to say hello and tried to eat her. She couldn't portal, and she was certain now that whatever being was powerful enough to utterly corrupt a forest of this size would definitely kill her with ease. The corruption just went on and on and it was so deep, so dark, evil.

 

It felt like those orc things and like the spiders, but more. Thranduil must be using his magic to keep this darkness at bay. She felt her respect for him go up a notch, then grief that things had ended the way they did between them. There was literally nothing she could do about that though, her family's actions thousands of years before she was born, and while she got his reaction, she still wished he could have looked past her family to see she was nothing like them.

 

Not thinking about that. Not in the worst forest in all the planes. Ok, the bloodroot forest was probably worse but she'd bet it was close. According to the map, she should be getting close to the exit now. Five days past the Enchanted River, as best she could tell time in this dark place. As soon as she got out of here, she'd dance beneath the sun or moon in gratitude, assuming it was better out of the forest.

 

She really really hoped it would be better.

 

* * *

 

No sign of her, as if the forest swallowed her whole. They split up and searched the banks along the river for miles, searched the forest along the river as well, a week of searching for nothing. Surely there would be something, her pack, cloak, a boot, something would wash up if she were lost to the river.

 

He did not think he could bear it if it were her that washed up, dead and mottled from the river's stain.

 

Badhor, Tauriel, Arneth, each headed a troop of rangers and were soon to report back at the central camp set at the ferry. Silence reigned over all, no song, little speaking, each grieved at the thought of her loss. Thranduil had no taste for food, wine, all had lost it's savor as it had not at the loss of his former wife. He had grieved, oh, surely he had grieved.

 

But not like this.

 

Arneth came through the trees, her grim face worn.

 

“Nothing, my lord. No sign of her, her passing, or her cat.”

 

Thranduil said nothing. There was nothing to say.

 

 

 

 

 


	24. Bears and Crows and Honey Cakes

The cobwebs were the absolute worst, the forest teeming with thick strands of sticky webbing though none crossed the path. They could no longer safely run at night, the path too winding and narrow. Instead they sat, her huddled against Spade and trying, but mostly failing, to sleep for fear of any part of her slipping off the path. Each night, so many eyes watched her they looked like sickly stars in the world's most terrifying planetarium. And they were close to the path, clearly only held back by that line of magic. Each night, silently watching her and waiting for her to slip across that line, a foot, a hand, any stumble or turn in sleep and she would be theirs, whatever they were. In the day, she saw nothing. No spiders, no squirrels, no birds, nothing but dead and half dead trees and webs and the bundled unmoving bodies of prey both large and small.

 

Never had she been more exhausted, more filthy—she dared not use the magic of a cleaning spell lest it attract something powerful enough to defy the magic of the path. They traveled quiet quiet and hoped the path got no narrower or weaker. It's protective magic was beginning to wane and she really hoped that was a sign the Forest Gate was getting close.

 

Tonight was especially bad. Something, or some _**things**_ , lumbered and crashed through the wood, great squeals, sounds of flesh of some kind being rent and screams. Spade periodically hissed viciously, and once stood and roared a challenge to something with huge lambent purple eyes that faded into the pitch black and never returned. And it was pitch black, not dark, but cave dark, lightless, and she began to feel this nightmare of a wood went on forever, like she'd died and gone to one of the hells and didn't know it.

 

Late in the afternoon of the eleventh day, distant between two ivy choked trees that had crashed together to form a sort of gate, she saw the sun. Spade needed no urging and finally they burst out into a great grass plain dotted here and there with trees, healthy trees, and the air so sweet she cried for joy. Off in the distance she saw a spring burbling, and a small pool of water, daisies waving in the breeze along the low bank of a thin stream cutting through the grass of the plain. Thank Hecate, maybe a real bath awaited her!

 

Swiftly they ran there, Spade slurping up the fresh water and her pulling up soap and shampoo from the pack as she scanned the horizon for any threats. The grass was tall, but Spade scented the wind and seemed relaxed. It blew from the North, so there could be threats from the South, but the cold water beckoned so and she could not resist it. Quickly, she stripped and slipped into the pool, the cold shocking in a good way after the humidity of the forest. Rocky bottomed, clear, and no more than five feet deep, it was as if the gods had shown mercy on anyone who managed to make it out of the wood in one piece.

 

Floating on the surface of the pool, she watched as the sun grew closer to the horizon. So utterly exhausted, she just wanted to curl up and sleep but the forest was close and once night fell who knew what might come out in the dark to hunt. That thing with the huge purple eyes was a day's ride away, and that was not far at all for something that had certainly seemed to be huge to travel. The moon had waned to half its size and the dark of the moon would be here soon-- she was hardly at the point in her power that she should wait around and see if that thing came looking for dinner in the night. It was time for her to head to some sort of safety if she could find it.

 

The map marked a landmark called the Carrock and next to it a group of humans called the Beornings.

Humans were weak. They did not settle in areas an immortal would find dangerous. If there was a town of them there that area should be plenty safe for her even at the dark of the moon. They also maintained a toll bridge over the Anduin, which seemed better to her than trying to swim it since the river looked to be wide and glacier fed on the map—it would be miserably cold. Plus, in this world, who knew what lurked in it? Nope. She had gold and silver coin enough to pay her way across and hopefully if there was a toll bridge maybe there was some kind of lodging she could pay for and resume her journey once the moon was waxing.

 

Exiting the water, she pulled clean clothes from her pack and stuffed the dirty ones in, quickly braided her hair as she sang a song and watched Spade leap and roll in the grass, chasing butterflies like an enormous house cat. Pulling out a bowl and calling up dried meat for the cat, she then called up bread and cheese for herself and tore off hunks of each and ate them like an utter savage in the light of the warm sun.

 

It was perfect. And then she thought of telling Thranduil of it and remembered she'd likely never have the chance to tell him anything again and the sun seemed not so bright.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil's thoughts were similar to hers, though of an even grimmer nature. Tauriel found nothing, and so if the river had her it was willing to give up nothing of its prize. Badhor had yet to report. His group traced the elf path through to the Forest Gate and unless they found a willing and wholesome bird to carry news to him it would be many more days before he received news of Zaile's fate, for good or ill. Twelve days now she was gone and his hope of good news regarding her grew ever dimmer.

 

His only joy—his son returned in his absence, just in time to fight off an orc attack upon these very halls. After the battle, the wretched creature Smeagol was gone and his guards slain. Out of mercy they had allowed him to climb one solitary oak, tall and proud, to feel the wind upon his face. But when summoned down, he refused and his guards thought simply to wait him out until hunger or thirst drove him to return, unwilling to climb after him and wrench him down with violence.

 

Now his son and many rangers pursued the orcs and Smeagol through the deep forest while he awaited them, too late in returning to the halls to join the battle despite his haste at word of his son's arrival.

 

Had Zaile encountered these orcs and been taken? No. She had left at nigh the peak of her power, and the battle alone would have alerted all to her location. They were mere orcs, not a sorcerer among them, and not of sufficient power to be a threat to her at this phase of the moon.

 

Though she was tired, distracted, and did not wear the mithril mail he gave her, and orcs could be wily, lay hidden and strike with guile. His heart contracted with grief at the thought of her missive to him, her desire to make amends, her piteous apology and fear of his loss, her obvious love for him.

 

Her certainty that he did not love her.

 

Thranduil stood and looked into the fire, his hand gripping the carven stone mantelpiece so hard his knuckles whitened. Little did he like what he saw in himself; indeed, his pride and selfish desire to keep her had kept her from the safety of her home. Would that he had opened the portal to her land! She would be safe, and surely she would have returned to him ere long. Instead, he kept her as Eol kept Aredhel, and then his cruelty drove her to her lonely death. If dead she indeed were. The orcs might have taken her to Dol Guldur where she would face torment, the Enemy surely interested in such power. He knew not her fate, might never know it, as her family would not.

 

Bronon awaited his judgement in the dungeons and yet he had not the heart for it, his own ill temper the spark that lit that fire. Still, as he had naught to do but wait, and Bronon surely considered himself ill-used, he might appraise his erstwhile guard of the consequences of his actions.

 

Stepping forth, he called to the guard, “Call the council to the chamber. Let Bronon be brought,” he said firmly, then gathered all she had left him into a large box, and pocketed her letter. Pulling on his robe, he carried her amends through the halls and saw that few of the Sindar would meet his eye. Word of her likely fate, and his grief, had spread and all seemed to rue any part they had in it.

 

Through the woodland halls he paced, grief ever his companion, no song to be heard, as if she had taken it with her. If her death became certain, song would begin again, but of grief. For now, the halls seemed to stand breathless with the fear and anticipation of the news of her death. Would he had been different with her, gentle as Celebredom had ever urged him to be, or that she had never had the misfortune to come to his halls and was yet young, fair, and full of joy. Would that she had know him before he allowed bitterness and pride to darken his heart.

 

Into the council chamber they came, and Bronon after, his face worried and yet there was a glint of defiance in his gray eyes.

 

Thranduil said softly, “Tuel, recount again what you heard between the Lady Zaile and Celebrimdal.”

 

Intently, he watched Bronon's face as Tuel told her tale, saw surprise flicker at moments and finally shame. Good.

 

“In my unreasoning anger at her innocent connection to Maglor,” Thranduil said calmly, “I pushed the lady to prove herself by clearing the mountains alone in one day to her hurt.” He stood and began to pace around the table, “That very morning, ere the battle began, I heard her pray to Nienna and beg for her comfort, that I might forgive her, and that she might win my love and prove herself,” he paused to look down into Bronon's face, “and still, in my anger, I pressed her sorely.” He turned away and continued pacing, “Upon awaking, despite my cruelty to her, she worked tirelessly to heal the unhealable, to restore the unrestorable,” he turned to Bronon, “and you barred her way because you thought her unfit.” He opened the box of treasures she left him, spilled them across the table and said, “She left me this to make amends for wrongs she had no hand in, to aid my people, and, as she put it in her letter to me, 'to save some lives.'” He turned away from the room, stood looking into the fire, “Even in her humiliation she sought to aid us, even in her leaving she spoke to me of her love.”

 

Long he stood, brooding over the fire, Bronon, the council forgotten as he considered her fate and his part in it. Finally, Tuel spoke, “What say you, Bronon?”

 

“I knew not, my king, I thought only of her Noldor...”

 

Thranduil stopped him, “My guilt is greater than yours. But I will have no guard who presumes to act without my or the council's orders.”

 

Bronon nodded, then said, “I would seek her, until she is found. Give me leave to right my wrong, my king.”

 

Thraduil considered. Bronon was skilled, only Badhor, and perhaps Tauriel, exceeded his ability to track, to move without detection, “Very well, though long may you seek her and the roads you take may lead to ill. Nigh two weeks we have sought her, to no avail. It is as if the forest itself took her, or, perhaps, a worse fate.”

 

All around the table sorrow, deep and still as a cenote.

 

Galadas spoke, “I shall retain hope. The lady left at the peak of her strength, well equipped for a journey, and has wisdom beyond her years. It may well be she hid her tracks in some fashion, whether to hide from orcs or us. I choose to believe she is well, will be found, and may be disposed to return.”

 

Bronon said gravely, “I will find her, my king, I swear it.”

 

“Find her only, Bronon, unless she be in great peril. Reportedly, she journeys to Lothlorien.”

 

* * *

 

Zaile rejoiced to see the stars overhead, their light shining over the great river Anduin. It was wide, she could barely see the opposite shore, far too wide to swim and the current seemed fast as well. Cold too,as she anticipated, far colder than the spring, the water a deep clear glacial blue before night fell. They'd followed the stream of the spring until they came within sight of the river and then Spade ran along the edge of it, both of them weary but thrilled with the clean night air, the coolness of the breeze off the distant mountains, fresh green scent of an unmown field, so much better, cleaner. If there was darkness here, she could not sense it. But life, oh, life, it was everywhere. She was drunk on it, feeling the joy of living things under the stars.

 

Tired so tired, but she must dance, she could not resist the urge to dance, and so they paused and she pulled off her boots to dance beneath the light of the stars, a dance of joy to be alive and sorrow at her lost love, her dark hair swinging free of the braid to tumble around her shoulders, and had anyone seen her it looked as if the stars themselves came down to dance with her, lights twinkling among the waving grasses. Spade joined her and together they danced and played, chasing each other through the tall grass, Zaile's laughter ringing out over the plains until they fell down into the grass next to her discarded pack.

 

First she laid out her sleeping bag, then pulled out Spade's bowl, filled it with dried meat, then another and filled it with water. For herself, she reached in and called for something cooked and suitable for dinner. The pack gave her venison sausage and a crusty loaf of bread still warm from the oven and a crock of butter. They ate in peace and quiet companionship, though Zaile missed Thranduil most in these moments of stillness and reflection.

 

She loved him still, it pulsed in her, this longing for him, and it felt very much like she'd heard it would feel to have a mate, a reluctant one anyway. In the Lore, finding your fated mate didn't guarantee a happy ending, though it very often resulted in one. Some juxtaposition of fate and free will meant that you might meet your mate, recognize them, they recognize you, and things could still go horribly horribly wrong. Demestriu and Helen came to mind, him abandoning her while pregnant to pursue power, her dying of sorrow for lack of him.

 

Thranduil would never accept her. Thousands of years he'd carried this anger and grief, and she was the only handy target for it. But, oh, how she missed him. If he was her mate, the ache would never cease, would only grow worse with time. There was nothing for it, she thought as she drifted toward sleep, he didn't want her and that was that.

 

On the morning of the second day of travel, she woke, refreshed herself by the river, fed them both and then consulted the map. Fog lay over the river and the fields, so she could see little, but she knew they were going in the right direction as there really were only two choices and yesterday she had seen the Carrock far in the distance.

 

They rode slowly through the fog, Spade pausing to raise her head and sniff the air periodically. Several times Zaile thought she saw something stalking them through fog, or several somethings. Not man shaped, rather some sort of very large animal that she occasionally saw in glimpses, but Spade continued to amble at her slow pace and seemed unconcerned so Zaile somewhat relaxed.

 

Finally, as the fog began to lift from the rolling fields, two great bears were revealed, huge shaggy creatures that paced them twenty or so feet to the left, the side away from the river, one in front and the other to the rear. Both paused, and so she paused, turning so she could see both of them, Zaile readying for battle though Spade seemed unworried. They looked at her with their beady eyes, then looked at Spade, and she had the strangest sense they were evaluating her, _**discussing**_ her with Spade.

 

The bears ambled away, the one to the rear smaller she now saw as it ran to catch up with the first. Both began to run in the oddest of gaits, and Spade ran after them.

 

“I hope you know what you're doing, Spade. I, for one, do not wish to be made into bear food.”

 

Spade chuffed in amusement and continued to follow the bears as the Carrock grew ever closer, a great stony eyot in the midst of the river. They could see the town some miles from the Carrock, or at least the wall of it. It was built on a rise in the land, a sort of low plateau with earthen ramps leading to the gates. It was not a large town, and the side of the wall closest to the river opened out to a paved road that led to a stone bridge with what looked to be guard towers on either side. A thin path led up into the mountains, likely the path she should take to Rivendell.

 

The bears led her to a tall iron bound wooden gate where two of the biggest, and hairiest men, she had ever seen stood guard. Seriously, it looked like they had stuffed their wool shirts with handfuls of black bear fur that poked out of the rough cloth, their arms huge and almost as hairy clutching great axes with handles easily the length of her body.

 

They looked at her, looked at the bears, and the taller one laughed and said, “Well now, here's something we've never seen before, a wee elfling riding a cat.”

 

The other laughed as well and said, “That beast's too proud and beautiful to be called a cat.”

 

“Aye, she's a right beauty,” the first said, then looked to Zaile, “The Beornings approve you, so you might as well come in then,” He banged on the gate with the handle of his axe, a sharp repeated pattern, then the gate opened to reveal a town that made her smile in delight.

 

It wasn't at all what she expected, and she revised her opinion of the size of the population, at least the human population. Animals positively everywhere, beautiful horses with the smoothest of coats, cows ambling through the marketplace, goats, bird, this place seemed like some kind of animal refuge. Huge bees drifted lazily through the air and instead of the typical filth of medieval villages, houses packed one on top of another with no green space in between, the fetid air hanging with the stench of excrement, in this place there were flower dotted lanes of green grass and clean cobblestone roads.

 

And it was roomy inside, the lanes wide, and interspersed with simple but well made wooden houses and shops. Through the lanes more of the huge hairy men, some accompanied by strong tall women with long thick braids of silky black hair, beautiful and fierce, arrayed in wool dresses that matched the tunics of the men. Everything simple, but well made, clean, and the place felt good, full of light and life.

 

There were a few little people, dwarves Thranduil had called them, with huge packs nearly twice their size that looked to be full of wares to sell, and a few humans that seemed to be travelers as well, far smaller than the other humans, some arrayed in travel worn clothing and some more richly.

 

“Are you going in, elfling, or do you plan to gawk at the gate all day?” The first guard said, seeming amused.

 

“I'll go in. Thank you for opening the gate. I'm just so glad to find a friendly place, and one so beautiful.”

 

“My job,” he said gruffly, but seemed pleased at the compliment to his home.

 

“Pardon me, but might you direct me a place where I can sleep? Is there an inn here?”

 

“Oh, aye, and food to be had there too. The Honeycomb. It's down the left hand lane, around the corner, turn right at the windmill and you should see the sign. Excellent ale, if you've a taste for that.”

 

“Thank you, so much,” she bowed as best she could astride Spade, and then rode into the town.

 

* * *

 

Finally, Badhor came to the Forest Gate. Nigh fourteen days had they sought her, slowly, carefully ensuring no sign was missed of either her death or her passage, hoping to bring his king good news or at least peace. As yet, neither he nor the four rangers with him had found definite signs of either, and yet he felt as if she had come this way, the path somehow purer, less foul than he remembered it being. One solitary physical sign—a single long black hair that might be hers. Down in the leaf mold next to the path he found it, but an hour before the Gate, though it was muddy and tangled and so could be anyone's as the scent was entirely gone.

 

They would look further in hopes she removed whatever spell or charm she used to hide her passage so completely even a troop of elf rangers could not perceive her. Next Badhor met her, and he refused to believe he would not meet her again, he would ask her to teach him if it were the sort of small magic he could do.

 

“Gaelon, take the edges of the forest, Arodon, the edges of the river. Garthes, Ingel, and I shall each take a strip of the field between the two,” Badhor spotted then the spring and pool, and sighed with pleasure, “But first we bathe.”

 

Agreement all around on that decision. They stunk, as elves rarely stunk, and never favored it. Men might go years without bathing, lives even to smell some of them. But the Eldar? Only when urgency or lack of water forced them to it. In the mid-day sun, and with this area part of the Beornings range, there was little danger to them and so they would bathe and rest a moment in the sun.

 

The ellons took one side of the pool, the elleths the other, such was their haste to be clean. Soon merry voices called out in song as they washed themselves and their travel filthy clothes clean and then hung their clothes upon the tree branches to dry, each arrayed in naught but their linen undergarments, and each carefully averting their eyes so as to cause no offense to another.

 

Had Badhor not been so loathe to leave the pool he would not have seen it—a single black hair caught on a rock in the bottom of the pool. He fetched it, and saw that it was the same color and length as the hair he found in the forest. Another dark haired maid could have passed this way, but it argued for the Lady Zaile, alive and well, and he took it as a sign of that.

 

Swiftly he exited the water, and scanned the area around the pool for sign of her passage, a print, anything. Nothing. The other elves paused, alert to the change in his demeanor, and looked for threats each with their back to the pool and facing out in a different direction.

 

“I found sign of her passage, though not certain. Let us search this area carefully.”

 

They donned their wet clothes, no time to wait for them to dry and only a fool would venture forth in the Wild in their underclothes. Aside from danger, should the Beornings come upon a troop of elves conducting a search clad only in their undergarments it would be the subject of many a humiliating and bawdy song. By the pool, of course it would be fine, but out in the further world? Fools they would appear, and be.

 

“Badhor! Come and see!” Garthes cried, and smiled at him. They ran towards where she stood, closer to the river, and saw flowers waving in the wind, of the sort that they only saw where Zaile danced. Of a certainty, she was alive and well enough to dance. Badhor was filled with gladness and there were smiles all around and laughter.

 

“Shall we pursue her, Badhor?” Arodon asked, then added, “Simply to know she is safe, and perhaps to accompany her to Lothlorien?”

 

There was agreement on this point and he was sorely tempted. The Wild was unpredictable, dangerous, and she was so young if powerful in her own right.

 

“I fear she will think we mean to force her to return,” Badhor replied, “and will flee us ere we may speak to her. I would not give the impression that the king seeks to force her lest it dim the chances of a willing return.”

 

“But how is she to know the king did not order Bronon to deny her?” Idril said with some impatience. “She must be told. She left falsely believing herself cruelly refused and would not have departed otherwise.”

 

“Idril is right. I saw the lady. Though she left with her head high all could see in her face the grief of true love lost,” Garthes declared firmly, “She left as one who believed she must, not with joy but with sorrow. To allow her to believe thus is wrong.”

 

“It is, but I question if we are the best messengers, this the best time,” Badhor said thoughtfully. “I know not the best choice.”

 

Gaelon rarely spoke, quiet and reticent to a fault he was largely content to listen. Thus, when he spoke, his words carried more weight, “Let us follow her trail but remain hidden. Send word to the king of her location. He may decide to speak or no, such is above us.”

 

Quiet consideration, and agreement—they would chart Gaelon's middle path.

 

Swiftly they spread out and ran through the waist high grass, the sun bright, the air clean, such pleasure after the sorrow of the darkened forest. And as they ran they saw more indications of her passage, calling out to one another in joy at the certainty that it was her and she was well. She had slowed her pace somewhat, and so perhaps she did not flee them as he first thought but rather understandably desired to leave the corrupted portion of the forest as quickly as possible. Perhaps she would be amenable to conversation?

 

No, he thought not. He remembered her last words to him, asking if she were a prisoner. Likely she would think the king sent them to retrieve her as opposed to protect her. Badhor sighed, regretting his own part in that misunderstanding.

 

Ahead, Gaelon paused at a large outcropping of rock at the eaves of the forest. Badhor turned and ran towards him, thinking he perceived some threat from forest, then smiled as he saw a raven alight upon the tall rock and look down at Gaelon with it's bright black eyes. It looked to be one of the great ravens, one capable of thoughtful speech, and so it was.

 

“Four elves in tall grass I see running. Not two days past I see one who is elf and something newriding a huge _**cat**_ ,” here the bird seemed to shudder, as if it had seen a nightmare, “strange days are these.”

 

Badhor smiled. The curiosity of the great ravens was unmatched by any other beast. “Greetings, I am Badhor of the kingsguard of King Thranduil of the Woodland Realm. Would you carry a message to him for me?”

 

The raven cocked his head and said, “I am Garc, son of Hoarc, willingly will I do this, but one boon do I ask.”

 

“What would you have, o Garc son of Hoarc?”

 

“Evil days, and evil tidings arrive here. Long we dwell in peace, now darkness flies to us. We would fly and nest above your stone halls, but winter there is deep, food scarce then. Feed us well and as your messengers alone we will serve, your eyes we will be, us and our children forever in loyalty as long as the bargain is honored,” Garc bowed his head.

 

That was an excellent offer, one Badhor was certain the king would accept. They relied most often upon the thrushes, but they were no match for the crebain of the Enemy. Each loss deeply grieved the King as they were valiant birds, noble of heart and long the friends of the Woodland Realm. “I bid you to carry a message to the king and make your offer to him. I speak not for the king, but his mind in this I think I know--he will accept your offer with good cheer.”

 

“What message?”

 

“Zaile is alive and we follow, but in secret. Her path leads toward Lothlorien.”

 

Garc, “I will return to you with your king's words. Good wind and weather,” and with that, he rose into the sky gracefully and flew towards the halls.

 

* * *

 

The inn was really something. Sort of like a petting zoo combined with a bar combined with a vegetarian restaurant that had a few hotel rooms above it. It was clearly the place to be--the building was absolutely packed with customers, many of them locals who could easily eat at home more cheaply. Zaile could see why when she bit into this sort of honey seed cake thing she'd been given. Oh, that was good. She was definitely buying more of those for the road, she'd live on them if possible. The ale was good too, but not as singular as those honey cakes.

 

After she ate four, the broad dark haired innkeeper smiled slightly. Six, and her smile became tinged with respect. Ten and there came a kind of awe in her wrinkled face, and she smiled broadly and laughed when Zaile came back for, “Just one more.”

 

“Lady elf, I feared you might eat them all. Never will I judge another's appetite based on size—you are small, but mighty!”

 

Zaile laughed too, and said, “This might be one of the best things I have ever eaten. I'll eat them until I can't eat anymore, then wake up and eat some more, and pack my bag with them for the road.”

 

“High praise indeed, my lady, especially from one of the fair folk.”

 

“Zaile, my name is Zaile. And the praise is well earned.”

 

“And I am Vidumavi,” the woman smiled and said, “If you wish, I shall see that your chambers tonight include a stack of cakes baked fresh for you.”

 

“Yes, please!” Zaile said and the northwoman laughed in delight.

 

“Welcome, Zaile,” and then she added an extra cake to the plate and handed it to Zaile.

 

“Thank you, Vidumavi. I'm so glad I found your inn.”

 

This seemed to amuse the woman again, and Zaile sat down to eat her cakes. Spade trotted in the door in her small cat form and leapt up on the table, clearly looking for food. After sniffing the plate, she looked up at Zaile beseechingly and mewled piteously.

 

“Yes, hold on beast, I will get your dinner.”

 

She pulled out Spade's bowls, filled one with water and then the other to overflowing with dried meat. A couple of people close to her looked askance when she removed a large bag of chunks of dried meat from her pack, but once they saw she gave it only to Spade they seemed to accept that cats were obligate carnivores and just looked away as if it disgusted by the sight.

 

“Eat quickly, Spade,” she whispered.

 

The cat set to and the pile was gone in a minute. Then she laid sprawled out on the table, glaring and lashing her tail as she looked about in challenge to any who might dare to disapprove her dietary habits.

 

“An interesting creature,” an amused male voice said, “I am surprised the Beornings would tolerate a predator within these walls.”

 

“Perhaps they felt they had no choice. Look at the little beast. She glares as if she might slay all in her path,” a similar voice replied.

 

Zaile stood and turned, she did not like strangers at her back, and saw two tall well built male elves with flashing gray eyes and long raven dark hair. They were quite good looking, even for the fey, and identical twins. Dressed in clothes similar to Thranduil's rangers, something about them said these were more than ordinary rangers. Leaning to either side of the fireplace, they smiled at her and seemed friendly enough but she knew that in the Lore friendly face did not necessarily equate to good intent. They were male strangers striking up a conversation with her in a bar in an unfamiliar city at a time her powers were low, which equaled a big nope.

 

Zaile looked them up and down, rolled her eyes, then pointedly stood up, took her food and moved to a chair in the corner that offered her the chance to put her back to the wall in case she needed to fight. Spade hissed at them and followed to leap on the table and sprawl back out, tail lashing.

 

Of course they followed, seeming not in the least dismayed by her silence and obvious lack of interest. If there was one thing in all the planes Zaile disliked it was men incapable of taking a hint. The incredible presumption of assuming that just because she was in public that they had a right to her attention irritated her to no end. She ignored them as they folded their long bodies into the chairs opposite hers and felt her irritation grow as they ordered honey cakes and ale, as if she had welcomed them to join her meal.

 

Spade hissed again and growled, likely picking up on her irritation or perhaps finding them annoying as well. Spade _**definitely**_ wasn't a fan of condescension and despite their words about Spade slaying the room, it was quite clear they considered her no threat. These fools were going to get scratched if they kept this up. Oh, well.

 

“Come, let us speak. Never have we seen a fellow peredhel we did not know. Whence come you, half-elven?”

 

It was hard to tell which was which, but this one seemed to be the bolder of the two.

 

She sighed, “Look, I don't know you. I don't speak to random males in bars unless I feel like it, and I don't.”

 

The two exchanged glances, seemed puzzled at her rejection. Just how vain were they? Or how dense?

 

“Think you our intentions evil?” the other one said incredulously. “Long have we patrolled these lands and all know us as protectors of all good people.”

 

“Dude, I neither want nor need protection. What I want is to eat my dinner in peace. Now, my cat is about ten seconds away from scratching you, which would not be so bad if she were just a cat. But she isn't. She's magical and one of the options she has is to poison her claws. She usually only does so in battle, but she has been known to use it from time to time on men who refuse to leave me alone. I don't know you. I don't want to know you. I've heard nothing about you from anyone else. Go away.”

 

Spade stood up and arched her back and hissed, then too fast to see she scratched her razor sharp claws across one of their honey cakes. It split into five neat slices, each slice edged with a line of bubbling green acid.

 

“Oh, yeah, you _**really**_ want to leave. That won't kill you but it _**will**_ scar and she loves to go for the face. I wouldn't eat that cake, either.”

 

The two males seemed confused and offended, though many of the people at the adjoining tables seemed amused, the innkeeper especially. Finally they stood, bowed stiffly, and left obviously displeased and to no small degree angry. Whatever.

 

As soon as they left, she moved back before the fire and leaned back. Spade curled up in her lap purring and fell asleep almost immediately. No one else seemed inclined to trouble her, so she relaxed a bit herself, enjoying the tankard of ale Vidumavi kept refilled.

 

Gradually the inn cleared out and the Northwoman came and sat across from her.

 

“Know you not Elladan and Elrohir?”

 

“Is that those two males from earlier? If so, no.”

 

“Great warriors are they and they speak the truth concerning themselves—they do keep all free people safe.”

 

“Good for them. But I was only in danger of eating too much. In my world, strange males do not speak to females in bars with the intent to 'protect' them.”

 

At that Vidumavi laughed, “Nay, I think they sought conversation and perhaps some flirtation but no more than that. Most are happy to receive attention from them.”

 

“Yes, that was obvious based on how surprised they were I was not. So full of themselves. No thanks.”

 

Vidumavi smiled, then leaned over, “I think you intrigued them by your rejection, especially Elrohir. His gaze lingered long on you as he left.”

 

“I was too busy eating honey cakes to notice. I only have eyes for them.”

 

More laughter, “Zaile, they knew not what to make of you. I doubt any has rejected them so abruptly and for naught but my honey cakes.”

 

“'Naught but my honey cakes?' Your honey cakes are awesome and deserve my full attention.”

 

“As you say, and I thank you for your compliment and the amusement of this evening.”

 

Zaile smiled, and then said sincerely, “Thank you for your kindness to me. I truly appreciate it,” then she stood and said, “Is there a place to bathe before I go to bed?”

 

“Yes, of course. I will have a hot bath prepared for you in your chamber. Rest here before the fire but a little longer and it will be ready.”

 

Later, as she lay clean and warm in bed, Zaile thought back on the two elven males who had wished to speak with her. They seemed like perfectly nice males, and certainly very good looking, but the truth of it was that she didn't have the heart or desire to flirt with anyone, not so soon after Thranduil. She missed him deeply, at least the caring him, the intelligent wise him, the sexy warrior him, even the proud difficult him. But that Thranduil was gone, at least regarding her, and the one that saw her now was only cruel and cold. He saw her through the lens of her hated family. No, though he yet lived Thranduil was gone to her and best she forget him.

 

If only she could.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil had read the same letter from Erebor four times before he flung it down and began to pace. It was not the missive—a simple report on trade and news of the surrounding area—but rather his own thoughts which continued to make work nigh impossible.

 

Zaile, downstream, her body rotting on a bank. Zaile in Dol Guldur or Barad-dur enduring Sauron's imaginative tortures, perhaps being lured to darkness herself or broken to it. Zaile the plaything and finally, when they tired of their amusements, the food of orcs.

 

Pointless to torment himself, foolish to indulge such emotion when the Enemy felt confident enough to strike at the heart of his kingdom. Badhor or Bronon would discover her fate and he would bear it in order to lead his people. He must. Though food had no savor, wine no appeal, all was as ashes on his tongue.

 

Legolas and the other rangers were due back today, the surviving orcs having taken refuge in Dol Guldur and Smeagol simply having vanished. Badhor was yet gone, and no word for two weeks, though if hope were lost Badhor would send word. He looked up as Garthil entered his study.

 

“My lord, Badhor has sent a great raven, Garc son of Hoarc, with news only for your ears,” she said quietly.

 

He stood still, uncertain if he wished to learn her fate, or face the possibility Badhor reported nothing, that she yet remained lost. Then he steeled himself, set his crown upon his head, swung his robe around him, and lifted his oaken stave so as to remind himself he was king and could, yea would, bear this as he had borne so much before.

 

“Take me to this raven.”

 

Garthil led the way through the halls, and as the great Doors opened he saw his son coming over the bridge. Legolas began to smile, then paused and looked with concern upon his face then sped his pace across the bridge. Clearly he was doing a poor job of hiding his distress, at least from his son. There would be many questions, and he was loath to answer them. Though the sight of his son's face was a comfort to him, as ever, and his love and concern a balm to his guilty soul.

 

The raven perched upon an outcropping of rock and said, “Hail, King Thranduil of the Greenwood, the Elvenking both mighty and just! I, Garc son of Hoarc, come with tidings from Badhor Kingsguard and would ask a boon myself once these delivered.”

 

“Greeting, Garc son of Hoarc, most welcome are you. I would hear your message now and consider your boon.”

 

Garc turned his head to eye the king, then said, “Zaile is alive and we follow, but in secret. Her path leads toward Lothlorien.”

 

“Thanks be to the Valar!” Thranduil bowed his head and thanked Nienna for her mercy to him, Manwe for his help, all the Valar that she was alive and well. Now, to keep her so. “If you will, I ask you bear message to Badhor and tell him this: Follow, but do not be seen. Keep her safe and send word when she arrives at her destination.”

 

“Gladly will I bear these tidings. I and my people would ask that we may nest above your halls and ever serve you, great king. Dark days are these, and we seek the protection of our young from the crebain of Dunland, ever the great Enemy's servants. Feed us in deep winter, let us serve you as your messengers and as your eyes as the thrush do. We will live in peace with them and set our nests in areas they do not favor, though ever will we war with the crebain.”

 

“Welcome are you, Garc, and welcome your people. Our lands lack no game and we would gladly share our bounty with you in exchange for your service. You may bring tidings to any elf of this land as you see fit, or seek me for that which you deem suitable best for my ears alone. If you or your folk require aid, equally may you call upon us in need.”

 

“I thank you, great king, long may you reign. Good wind and weather, my king.”

 

“Strong wings and bright sun, Garc.”

 

Thranduil watched Garc arise, gleaming black wings shining in the summer sun, and was filled with gladness to know Zaile was alive and well. Hope yet remained that he might speak with her and redeem himself. If she would not hear him, simply to know she remained alive was enough. Next he saw her, he would send her back to her people—he would not risk her again.

 

“Who is Zaile, and what is she to you, father?” Legolas asked, “I have heard strange tidings of this elleth, much good, some ill, and much difficult to believe.”

 

“Come, my son, let us speak together. I shall tell you all.”

 

 

 


	25. The Bear Necessities

Zaile awoke, feeling much improved from a hot bath and a good sleep in an actual bed. Today was the absolute nadir of her power and over the next two weeks she would gradually strengthen until she was again at her peak. She should be able to resume her journey in a week, maybe less, but for now she would relax and see what the town had to offer besides more honey cakes.

 

First she fed Spade--no point in antagonizing the vegetarian locals if she could avoid it. Then she organized her pack, calling up foodstuffs until it was clear Lileal had equipped her for a journey of many months. She'd add some of Vidumavi's cakes to the pack, but it wouldn't be for need—those things were unbelievably delicious. Top off the water in case there was no potable water on the way to Rivendell. It was always better to be over prepared than under, especially in an unfamiliar land like this.

 

She quickly cleaned everything—far better to do it here in safety as opposed to in the wild where the magic might attract something or someone unfriendly and the spell took little power. Finally, she took out her weapons. The knives and sword were sharp and ready, though she knew they were not her best options. She had decent skill with the bow, and there were plenty of arrows and an Ettuli bow in the pack, but the guns, those were really her best option when her magic was low. Unfortunately, she had but a single magazine's worth of ammunition left for the MP7, forty rounds. She had a hunting rifle and plenty of ammo for it, but that was useless for close combat. Finally, she had a Glock 19 and the typical seven clips every soldier carried, but only three of the fifteen round clips were full and the clip in the gun held ten bullets. All the ammo was spelled, normally a good thing, but once ammo was spelled it was an incredibly tricky and dangerous business to try to use magic to make copies of it, frankly not worth the risk for someone of her skill level.

 

She'd have to practice with the sword and knives, there was no way around it since she was stuck in this world. If only she'd practiced more and paid attention at home. It hadn't seemed like she needed to learn how to use such archaic weapons, but now she could better see the point—they didn't wear out, they didn't run low on ammo, they were dependable in a way modern weapons weren't. Maybe she could find an instructor here? She'd be here at least a week, maybe a week and a half depending on how dangerous the trail to Rivendell. It would take time to get good, but the sooner she started the safer she would be.

 

Of course her mind turned to Thranduil training her, his silver hair shining in the sun as he moved like water, his blue eyes glinting with humor and desire, voice taunting but warm, loving. Pain, such pain, it left her breathless, and she sat on the edge of her bed and cried over her loss for the first time. Before, in the forest, she could not let her guard down but here, in safety, the full weight of her pain and loss crashed over her and she wept with great heaving sobs until, eventually, she laid on the bed and felt empty and thirsty.

 

Spade circled her and purred, rubbing against her and butting her head against her hands, making little cries of concern.

 

“I still love him Spade. I don't miss the new him, but the one who loved me? Yeah, I miss him a lot. He was pretty great even with his faults. I've never met anyone like him.”

 

Spade just purred and didn't judge and so, after a time, Zaile fell back asleep exhausted from her tears.

 

 

Badhor spotted the Beornings first, laughing to see the great bears wrestling in a patch of daisies like cubs. He knew those brothers, had seen the triplets in his journeys from time to time.

 

“Hail, Wularic, Magor, and Heimwald,” Badhor cried from fifty yards away. Best to give them warning; the Beornings were less predictable when in bear from.

 

Three great heads lifted and snuffled the air. Then, with a strange ripple and shimmer of magic, one of the three took man form and walked through the grass towards them, naked as the Beornings felt no shame about the body in whatever form they took. Typically, they wore clothes in man form, but that was more because human bodies lacked the hair and thick fat of bears than any sort of modesty.

 

“Hail, Badhor, what brings you to the vales of the Anduin and our hunting grounds?” Magor called. He was the eldest by a few minutes and was the leader of the three. A trustworthy man, and a lethal opponent, Badhor was thankful that such as him patrolled this area as it reduced the Enemy's ability to attack them and ensured trade from Dale to Rivendell relatively unhindered, though their tolls were high indeed.

 

“We seek a young half-elf, Zaile is her name, and she would have been riding a great black cat.”

 

“We have heard of her. She resides within our town. Why do you seek her?”

 

“Merely to assure ourselves of her safety in her journey,”

 

Magor cocked his head and Badhor knew the man did not believe him, or at least that he sensed that Badhor was not telling the full story.

 

“The lady received the approval of my elder brother and his wife. She is welcome, her and her noble companion, as long as they abide by our customs. Her companion has agreed to rid our town of vermin but to eat no other beast or bird within our lands, and the lady is fair of heart,” Magor paused, then added, “and of form. What might your king want with her that he would send five rangers after her?”

 

Badhor sighed internally. They knew. He knew not how they knew, but they knew of the king's interest in Zaile and perhaps more.

 

“Merely to assure himself that she arrive safely at her destination.”

 

“Indeed? Her companion told a different tale. The lady herself has said nothing, troubled no one.” Magor considered, then said, “Long have we been neighbors, and I know you to be an honorable warrior. You may enter our town but should you trouble...”

 

“We will not. Our intent is only to observe. The king wishes to assure himself that she reaches her destination safely.”

 

“Ah. So you are to accompany her but not openly?”

 

“Yes. And report back her final destination.”

 

Magor nodded, then grinned, “Thranduil's courting methods are...novel. I wish you good fortune, Badhor, and I do not envy you your task.”

 

Badhor inclined his head, “Thank you, Magor.” He would not reply to the man's comment on his king's behavior. Badhor did not entirely disagree, but he would keep his opinions to himself.

 

Magor smiled, then added, “You will find her at the inn eating honey cakes. She has become something of a local legend as she ate enough cakes for three full grown male Beornings on her first night.”

 

Badhor smiled back, “The lady has a healthy appetite, and glad I am that she is well.”

 

Badhor watched as the man shimmered into a bear, a visual experience not unlike trying to see a hummingbird's wings in flight. He could see the man, he could see the bear, but the transition was as if his mind did not quite accept what it was seeing. It did not seem unnatural, simply hard to see clearly. He watched as the bears ambled past them away from the town. No doubt they were continuing their patrols of the region. About two days travel, maybe less, to the town and hopefully she would still be there when they arrived. He was utterly thankful that she was safe and well.

 

Garc flew down and angled his head toward Badhor inquisitively. The raven had been their companion since he had returned with word from the king.

 

“She is safe in the Beorning's town. We head there and will observe and aid her if needed. We do not yet know her final destination.”

 

The bird rose into the sky, no doubt heading back to Thranduil with this news.

 

* * *

 

 

Thranduil poured wine for himself and Legolas. His son sat, sprawled out in his favorite chair in Thranduil's study and took an appreciative drink of the wine.

 

“That is a particularly delicious vintage, father. Dorwinian?”

 

“Yes. Last year's harvest was especially fine.”

 

“Indeed. I can't remember tasting the like,” Legolas sipped, and seemed to be waiting for his father to speak.

 

Thranduil stood and faced the fire, uncertain of what to say. His relationship with his son remained close, but they did not speak of matters of the heart, at least not openly. Silence rested upon them both for a time, but not companionable.

 

“Is it true you court her?” Legolas asked quietly.

 

“I did.”

 

“But she left.”

 

“Yes.”

 

“She is of the Noldor? But from a world outside Arda or Valinor?”

 

“Yes. Her grandmother is Irime and her king was Maglor. She has renounced him.”

 

There was silence, then Legolas said, “She did not tell you this?”

 

He reached into his pocket, where he kept her letter ever with him. He handed the letter to his son and said, “She did not know her history. Her people are called the Ettuli, Those who Exit, and it seems that those who migrated to this new world chose to leave their past behind. Understandable as they seem to be of the exiled Noldor. She knew nothing of the Valar, nothing of our world. She was innocent and yet I was cruel to her in my rage. Then Bronon refused her entrance to the royal quarters under the assumption I would not wish her there. She left believing I deliberately publicly humiliated her and bore her no love and this was her letter to me,” he laughed bitterly, “She was kind to me, spoke to me of her love for me, and left what treasure she had to repay a debt that is not hers.”

 

He stood, facing the fire, refusing to look and see his son's disgust and disappointment, waiting for the condemnation he surely deserved. Long had Legolas been concerned over his silence regarding his mother, long had he expressed his disapproval of his father's growing ruthlessness and coldness towards others, his rage. No doubt his son felt this was justice.

 

“Do you truly love her, father? I have heard many things, many reasons why you might have chosen to court her. She is powerful, though it waxes and wanes with the moon?”

 

“Yes, she is powerful indeed, especially at the fullness of the moon. At first I sought her service for that reason. Her service became...more. She is young, it is...unseemly for me to court one so young. I would not have chosen one of the Noldor. And yet, I yearn for her as I have no other. When I thought her dead....light left me. Yes, I love her.”

 

There was a long silence. Thranduil turned and reached for the wine pitcher to see his son _**smiling.**_ He froze, so surprised was he, and Legolas walked to him and laid his hand upon his shoulder, his face filled with compassion.

 

“Glad I am for you father, for I know mother cared for you but did not love you. I know of her choice to remain in the Halls of Mandos and why she chose it. I know now the weight you bore for many ages, and yet never did you speak ill of her to me, never,” Legolas smiled and held out Zaile's letter, “The Lady Zaile loves you yet. This can be mended.”

 

Thranduil gazed at his son, his son who was ever ready to expect the best outcome, to forgive, and to love. Of course he would believe that Zaile might forgive him, and perhaps he was right.

 

“Badhor and a troop of rangers follow her to ensure her safety and to discover her destination. She makes for Lothlorien, reportedly.”

 

“Good. The Galadrim will keep her safe, father. They would not be opposed to a royal visit, when time and circumstances permit.”

 

Thranduil smiled then sobered, “Our great Enemy has awakened. My responsibilities bind me here.”

 

“There is nowhere safer than with the Lady Galadriel. Once Zaile arrives, you may send word to her via raven. The lady seems well disposed towards you and this war, as do all wars, will end.”

 

“Indeed, but I fear it may end poorly. However, there is still hope that he will not find the One Ring. Without it, his power is much diminished. There is hope. I will choose to think on that, my son.”

 

“We must send word to Rivendell. Smeagol was given into our safe keeping by Gandalf. He could create much mischief.”

 

“This message may not go by raven for fear it go astray.”

 

“I will carry it, father, if you will.”

 

“Not alone, Legolas. You will take a troop of rangers with you and travel with concern for safety more than speed.”

 

“Our rangers search for him yet. Perhaps he may be found.”

 

“Then linger here while they yet search. I would speak more with you, my son.”

 

Legolas smiled, “And I with you, my father.”

 

Thranduil embraced his son and for a time all was well.

 

* * *

 

Late in the day, past the setting of the sun, hunger drove her from her room else she would not have left at all. Spade followed her down the stairs and into the tavern. Both paused at the bottom of the stairs—the tavern was positively packed and it appeared that most of the patrons were well on their way to being good and drunk. The only other women she saw were sitting on laps, oh, and Vidumavi behind the bar. Of course those two arrogant elves from last night were here again, standing by the bar where she had ordered last time so as to be unavoidable.

 

Briefly she considered going upstairs and simply eating from her pack, but then she scented sweet warm honey cakes and fighting a couple of drunken elves seemed not too high a price for a stack of them. Zaile made her way through the crowd to the bar and smiled to see Vidumavi turn to her with a huge stack of honey cakes and a tankard of ale.

 

“You are my hero, Vidumavi, and my stomach grumbles her thanks to you.”

 

“Ah, it is my pleasure. Let me know if there is ought else you need.”

 

“Actually, do you know of any who might be willing to instruct me in sword and knife work? Beyond the basics, I have them, and I will pay.”

 

Vidumavi considered, then she looked toward the twins, “None can match them in arms. Elrohir is the master of sword and knife, everything bladed, and Elladan a matchless archer, though both are well skilled in all arms. They have inquired concerning you and learned nothing—the Beornings betray no secrets they learn from a fellow beast. Perhaps they would exchange lessons for information?”

 

“Are they safe?”

 

“Safe? Nay, they are far from safe. But they are friend to all good people. They would honor the bargain made.”

 

“Are they creepers?”

 

Vidumavi looked at her strangely, “I know not what you mean by 'creepers'?”

 

“Like, guys who creep on women, follow them, are too friendly in a condescending 'Hey, little lady,' kind of way.”

 

Vidumavi grinned, “Nay, they are not creepers but they are indeed used to the local women finding them appealing. Elrohir especially enjoys to flirt, Elladan less so, though both are honorable and do no more than tease even though some here would accept them for even just a night.”

 

“You would recommend them?”

 

“Aye, I would.”

 

“Fair enough. I'll wait. I have a feeling it's just a matter of time before they come over here.”

 

Vidumavi laughed and said, “Enjoy your meal, Zaile.”

 

And she did. Two plates of honey cakes and three tankards of ale later she decided to take a walk around the town, be outside under the sliver of the waxing moon. Perhaps, if she found a quiet empty place she might dance a little though she did not truly have the heart for it. Spade leapt to her shoulder and crawled into her hood, taking her smallest lightest form and Zaile headed out into the cool night.

 

The stars were not so obvious due to the torches and candlelight, but it was still far better than a modern city. She walked through the lanes of the town, pausing here and there to pet one of the many animals that wandered freely. It was odd that none of them seemed to poop in the streets, but then the people here seemed somehow able to communicate with the animals and live in harmony with them as equals so maybe it wasn't that weird after all. Eventually she arrived at the path that led to the front gate, thinking to perhaps leave the town and find a place to dance, something that might lift her spirits.

 

“Once night falls the gates do not open safe for direst need, my lady,” came a male voice behind her.

 

She turned and saw it was one of the elves from the other night, the slightly stockier one, Elrohir? Elladan? She wasn't sure. The other came up beside him and both stood looking at her, their faces strangely grave.

 

“Dude, it's not creepy at all you both following me in the middle of the night. What the hell?” She stepped back from then further. Vidumavi might trust them, but she didn't know them and right now they were behaving, well, weird.

 

They looked taken aback and both raised their hands, “My lady, we are of the same kindred and mean you no harm.” Stocky one again.

 

“Truly, we were merely curious as to your destination and once we saw it was the gate we thought to save you trouble,” slightly more slender, with a softer deeper voice.

 

“So, once night falls I can't leave?”

 

“Yes. The Beornings want their tolls and the area is perilous at night, especially for the unwary or those traveling alone. These mountains are full of orc holes, though the High Pass is safer than other routes due to the Beornings. It is safest in day, though nowhere is truly safe in these dark times,” stocky one said.

 

They did not seem to wish her ill, but she wasn't fond of strange pushy men following her at night. Though they seemed to view her as kin; maybe all elves here were friendly to each other? No, that wasn't true—history proved that. Elves fought and killed each other here. Why did they seem to expect her to trust them?

 

As if reading her mind, though probably it was her face, the one with the deeper voice said, “Most here know us to be trusted, at least by reputation if not actual experience. Long have we traveled this area and are well known in all the elven realms. We thought you knew of us, but you do not.” He paused and both cocked their heads at the exact angle, looking much like curious birds.

 

“We regret alarming you, lady,” stocky one said, “I am Elladan,” then he indicated his brother, “and this is Elrohir.” Both bowed and smiled at her.

 

Zaile relaxed, if for no other reason than Spade had hopped out of her hood and seemed completely at ease with them, lolling by the side of the road and then running off through the field. “I am Zaile.”

 

The brothers smiled and Elladan quickly said, “Greetings, Zaile, would you allow me to accompany you back to the inn?”

 

“Sure.”

 

He held out his elbow and she shook her head, “The last guy in this world to offer me his elbow next offered marriage then suddenly changed his mind in about the worst way possible. No thanks. I'm good.”

 

Elrohir laughed to see his brother's surprised and dismayed expression, “Come, brother, let us walk with our new friend to the inn,” he smiled roguishly at her then said, “My lady, might you allow me to buy you a tankard of ale once we arrive at the inn?”

 

“Sure, you can buy the first round and I'll get the next.”

 

At that, Elladan laughed and elbowed his brother, “As impervious to your charms as mine, brother. We both lose.”

 

“Wait, what, did you two _**bet**_ on me?”

 

The two looked guilty, then Elrohir said, “Nay, merely...”

 

Elladan continued, “We see who can first convince a maid to show favor to them.”

 

“So you are players?”

 

They looked at her in confusion, “What does this mean, 'players'?” Elladan said.

 

 

“Males who pretend to be interested in a female for sport.”

 

“Nay, Nay! We are not such!” Both loudly denied it, and seemed horrified that she would think such of them.

 

The brothers flanked her as they walked back toward the inn, one on each side. Suddenly, she slipped an arm around both of their waists, pulled them close and said, “So you are serious in your affections for me then? You _**both**_ want to marry me? When shall we set the date? I have always wanted two husbands. How lucky I am to find such wonderful mates!”

 

The two looked at her in horror, eyes widening, mouths open and speechless as they came to an abrupt stop and she bent over in laughter, tears running down her face at the looks they gave her. “Oh, those faces, oh, I can't stop laughing.”

 

“Tis not a jest worthy of you, my lady,” said Elladan frostily.

 

“Come, Elladan, we are fairly repaid.” Elrohir said, his voice sounding amused, “my lady, you have won this round,” he said with a bow.

 

“What, you aren't serious about me? You mean to toy with my affections! Sirs, I am wounded deeply! However shall my heart recover! Woe!” She slapped her hand over her heart and then dissolved into more laughter.

 

Both of them looked at her, then began laughing themselves, merry voices echoing loudly until they heard a couple of windows slam shut and someone yell, “Tis hours past nightfall! Let us sleep sons of Elrond!”

 

They smothered their laughs and Zaile said, “You are Elrond's sons? I make for Rivendell to speak with him.”

 

The two sobered instantly, “Alone? No. We will accompany you. It is not safe for you to travel alone through these lands.”

 

“I did not invite you, Elladan, or your brother. I assure you, I am capable of taking care of myself.”

 

Elladan began to speak angrily, and Elrohir stopped him, “My lady, we travel back to Rivendell ourselves. Ever is it safer for three than two as the orcs are far less likely to attack a company than two travelers. Would you be willing to accompany us?”

 

There was no way they were asking her to travel with them for their safety, and they did seem ok. “I will, but I plan to stay here another week or so.”

 

Both nodded, then said, “We may tarry here a week, my lady, but no longer.”

 

They were at the inn; it had cleared out a fair bit by now and so they walked in and took a seat by the fire, Vidumavi coming out personally to take their order. True to his word, Elrohir ordered the first round and Zaile ordered another plate of honey cakes, enough to share.

 

“That's fair. Ok, one week then.”

 

“Where do you hail from, Zaile? All the half-elven we know, but not you.”

 

Both looked at her curiously and she was reminded of Spade when she was curious about something—the cat was positively unrelenting in her curiosity and she suspected these two were as well. She thought of Vidumavi's advice and decided to take it.

 

“I will answer any ten questions in exchange for an hour of training with the sword or knives.”

 

The brothers looked at each other, smiled, then nodded in agreement. “Done, with the caveat you will obey us during training and not complain,” Elladan said.

 

“The answers must be honest and direct, no evasions,” Elrohir added.

 

“And you will answer the first ten tonight,” Elladan continued, “with the first training session on the morrow after the breakfast hour. We shall meet you here.”

 

“Agreed. And I will buy the first round after we train.”

 

They smiled, “As you wish, though you may find you yearn for your bed once training is done.”

 

“Maybe. We'll find out tomorrow.”

 

Elladan smirked, then said, “The first question is mine, and then you may ask brother.”

 

“Why so?! I...”

 

“I am the better in sword and knife, as you well know, and so I shall be the one to do the work of training. Be thankful I allow you any questions at all.”

 

“Why, that is a foul lie brother! I am your equal in the sword and by far your better in the bow!”

 

She watched them argue, each clearly enjoying it, until finally they came to the agreement Elladan would go first today and Elrohir tomorrow, and that she would be instructed by them together but each would take turns as the lead. She rather enjoyed watching their good natured wrangling and thought they were likely to be lively companions. Spade seemed to approve them, so they were likely what they seemed—elven warriors who were fair to those who were fair and deadly to those who were not.

 

“So, my lady, the first questions is mine,”

 

“For today.”

 

“Peace, Elrohir.”

 

Elrohir snorted, then subsided.

 

“Where do you hail from?”

 

Of course they would pick the most complicated question to begin with. “I am from another world; I traveled here accidentally via magic.”

 

The brothers exchanged glances, then Elrohir said, “Do you mean another land, such as Harad or beyond that land?”

 

“No, I mean another world, outside Arda and Valinor, a totally different world.”

 

Skeptically they looked at her, and so she decided to prove it to them. The inn was empty except for them, no reason not to break out her tech, “Hold on. I'll be right back.”

 

She dashed up the stairs and grabbed her pack then headed back downstairs. Taking out her laptop, she booted it up, found the folder labeled “grandmother, summer 2018,” set it on slideshow and turned it towards them.

 

“This is my home. This machine is not magic, just more advanced than the machines of this world. It shows images, like paintings, of my home.”

 

The brothers watched rapt as she showed them images of the plane of the Ettuli, their faces reflecting surprise and fascination, and once Elladan blushing and looking away as he caught sight of her in shorts and a tank top.

 

“We dress differently in our realm, I regret..”

 

Elrohir laughed, “I do not.”

 

Elladan blushed more deeply and said, “Brother, have done.”

 

Elrohir say back and crossed his arms across his chest, “Ask your next question, brother.”

 

“You say you arrived here accidentally, how so?”

 

Zaile reached into her pack and called up a piece of paper and a pencil, “So, say you have two places,” she made two marks on the paper and drew a line between them, “you could travel the line between them or, using magic,” here she folded the paper so the dots were right next to each other, “you could open a gate directly from one to another and simple walk through and be in the other place. That is what I did, but it went wrong. I never meant to end up here and now an enemy has trapped me here using his magic. Until I can grow enough in power to defy him, or learn a way to circumvent the spell he used, I can not return home.”

 

Homesickness, loneliness, sorrow filled her. She thought of Thranduil and how she thought she might have a place with him, but no, she was yet alone in a world where she had little idea of how to navigate it. It occurred to her she was, again, trusting these elves too quickly. Considering what happened last time maybe she should exercise some caution. Though they were sons of Elrond who had a connection to her cousin...but what if this Elrond were like her cousin, not her cousin now but her cousin in the past? He was of the Noldor and the Noldor were, well, at best she could say they were tempestuous. Still, he offered answers and she would take the risk to learn them.

 

A hand on her shoulder and she looked up into two faces seemingly filled with compassion, “Lady, you will be welcomed in Rivendell, as all folk fair of heart are welcomed. Be of good cheer,” Elladan smiled at her, as did Elrohir, and she did feel a bit better.

 

“My lords, might we continue this in the morning? I will happily answer as many questions as you wish over breakfast.”

 

They stood, and with a last smile made their way to the door as she headed for the stairs. But after they were gone she went and spoke with Vidumavi.

 

“Vidumavi, Elladan and Elrohir have offered to travel with me. Is that safe?”

 

Vidumavi smiled broadly, “Indeed. Glad I am of it. They know these lands and are mighty warriors.”

 

“I plan to travel to Rivendell. Is, what can you tell me of Elrond their father? Are the elves there good people?”

 

“They are elves, and rightly are elves called the fair folk though some are only fair to others of their kind. The people in Mirkwood are wilder and less trustful of strangers, the same with the elves of Lothlorien, but Rivendell is called the Last Homely House for a reason—all good folk are welcome there, men, elves, Beornings, Hobbits, dwarves, all welcome to rest and recuperate from their journey. I have never heard ought bad regarding Elrond or his sons. My lady, I would trust them with my own daughters.”

 

Ok, that set her mind at rest. If Vidumavi and Spade considered them trustworthy, then it seemed like a good bet.

 

“Vidumavi, if any come and ask about me from the Woodland Realm, from Thranduil's realm, would you be willing to tell them I make for Lothlorien?”

 

Vidumavi thought for a moment, “I would not lie to Thranduil's folk, they would know it and take it ill, but there is no need for me to speak to them at all. I can be busy with my baking should they arrive. But do others know ought of your plans?”

 

“Only the sons of Elrond.”

 

Vidumavi snorted, “And they would not tell that proud elf-king or his folk anything save in the greatest of need. No, lady, your secret is safe with them.”

 

“Thank you, I appreciate your kindness to me.”

 

Vidumavi smiled, “And you make it easy to be kind, young Zaile.”

 

“I'd like to go ahead and pay for and reserve my room for the next week. I'll train with the brothers and then we will set forth.”

 

They settled up, Zaile adding an extra gold coin and Vidumavi steadfastly refusing it with an arched brow.

 

“I'd like to do something nice for you,” Zaile insisted.

 

“By paying me for a month instead of a week? I am an honest innkeeper, my lady.”

 

Zaile smiled, then thought about it, “Do you have any ailments? Ought I can heal?”

 

“You are an elven healer, my lady? If yes, then I would ask your help though it is likely beyond your skill. My son is always hungry and thirsty, though he grows ever thinner. His water comes often, and he is always so tired. Lord Elrond urged exercise and a diet of meat and frequent small meals. My son has improved, and yet he is not well. Lord Elrond said that this was an ailment of man that he knows only how to slow, but not to fully heal. Rarely this illness affects our people and...” Vidumavi began to cry, “always it is fatal.”

 

Zaile had a good idea what it was—type 1 diabetes. She'd never healed a mortal disease—the Lore didn't get those kinds of diseases--and wasn't sure how much power it would take, wasn't even sure she _**could**_ heal it. But without insulin, assuming it was diabetes, Vidumavi's child would definitely die young, that she did know.

 

“I would be willing to try, though it may hurt him. Sometimes I am not the most gentle of healers.”

 

“Gentle or rough, if it works I would owe you much.”

 

Vidumavi led her up the stairs and into the section of the inn for family. “My husband mans the gate this eve, this is my daughter Sigbi and her sister Sigera,” here she indicated two dark haired girls sewing by the fire in comfortable cushioned chairs, “and this is my son, Sigmar.”

 

Sigmar was pale and thin, his dark hair lank and his pale blue eyes sunken. Yet he smiled brightly and slowly rose to hug his mother, his head resting against her belly. He looked to be seven, maybe older or younger, and very very ill. He had a strange sickly odor, like nail polish remover and rotting fruit, awful.

 

“Hello Sigmar, I am Zaile and I would like to see if I can heal you. Would you allow me to do that?”

 

The boy looked at her and nodded, though there was no hope in his eyes. Clearly he had seen other healers and expected her to fail as they did.

 

“Ok, please take a seat.”

 

Sigmar sat and she knelt next to him and took his hand. Spade leapt onto his lap and the boy seemed delighted by the purring cat. “You can pet her, she's friendly. Her name is Spade.”

 

As he petted Spade, she sent a thin tendril of magic into the boy, just enough to have a look. A poorly healed broken arm and then something systemic, like a invasion combined with a missing limb. She could feel something there that shouldn't be, and the place where something should be but wasn't. Ok, she could probably do this but it might not be pretty.

 

“Sigmar, I will try to be gentle but this may hurt. It might hurt a lot.”

 

The boy looked up at her and said, “I am a Beorning. I fear nothing.”

 

Zaile opened her magic and fed it through the eye of her elven magic. It was _**different**_ healing a mortal, harder somehow, and she heard the boy gasp as she healed his arm with a thrust of magic. Then, she filled him with magic, right down to the cellular level, chanting the spell for setting right that which was not. He screamed, and she clamped down on his hand, holding him in place as he thrashed about. Someone was yelling at her, but she was almost there, almost had it, just a little more. She felt the moment all was set to right, the clean perfection of his body, all as it should be and sat back feeling utterly exhausted to look upon a vastly different boy.

 

His hair was glossy with health, eyes bright, and he was at least three inches taller and twenty pounds heavier. Panting, he looked at her in amazement, then looked down at himself, stood unsteadily and then laughed and embraced his mother.

 

“Mother, I am well! The wizard healed me! Thank you, thank you!!”

 

Vidumavi looked stunned, wary, and then she smiled in joy at the sight of her obviously healed son.

 

“Zaile, I know not how to thank you. Ask anything of me and it is yours,” her voice was filled with wonder and such joy, though some trepidation as well as if she worried over what Zaile might require for payment.

 

“Well, when I use magic I am always very hungry. Do you have any of those honey cakes? I would only ask you for a very large plate of them.”

 

Vidumavi looked at her incredulously then shook her head and laughed, “Yes, yes, as many as you want for as long as I shall live. You are ever welcome in my home, Lady Zaile.”

 

Vidumavi fed her until she could eat no more, the entire family thanking her repeatedly to her great embarrassment. Watching Sigmar race around the house, he and Spade playing together, that was all the thanks she needed. She smiled to see the boy hale and happy, and then looked up to see Vidumavi watching her, eyes filled with a sort of quiet wonder.

 

“You truly are happy just to see him well, are you not?”

 

“Yes,” she replied simply, then stood. “I think I'll head to bed now. Thank you for the meal.”

 

Vidumavi embraced her suddenly, fiercely, “If I or mine might aid you in any way, forever are we in your debt, my lady.”

 

“Nope, no you're not. You made me feel welcome and were kind to me. You did what you could and so I did what I could. I'm glad I could help. You owe me nothing.”

 

Then she smiled and left, closing the door behind her and heading straight to her rooms. Spade ran down the stairs, off to hunt or perhaps merely to play. Well, she would go to bed, she was exhausted. Honestly, it had been incredibly draining to heal the mortal boy, more so than healing an elf. Maybe it was the disease itself as opposed to an injury? She didn't know, but she was glad she wasn't traveling for a while. Quickly she removed her clothes and then fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

 

Only to be rudely awakened by a cat bite a few hours later.

 

“What the fuck, Spade?” Zaile said and shook her arm. She looked at her arm and saw indentations but the bite hadn't broken the skin. Spade looked up at her and mewed. Shit, she needed to show her something. That was never good. She held out her hand and Spade bit her, hard, and her mind filled with images—Badhor and four other elves dressed in the clothes of Thranduil's realm walking the path into town, their faces grimly determined and travel worn. One of the guards walked with them and she heard them talking,

 

“Welcome, master elf! If you are wearied from your journey, I bid you consider my inn for your stay. One of your kind resides there now, a young she-elf with quite the appetite for my wife's honey cakes.”

 

“Oh, what might be her name?”

 

“Zaile, though the sons of Elrond often eat and drink with us as well. Our food is renowned in the region, and to the taste of men, elves, and Beornings. The ale's not bad either,” he said with a laugh.

 

Badhor made a displeased face at the mention of the sons of Elrond, then said, “Thank you. Perhaps we will break our fast there ere the sun rise. Have you public baths?”

 

“Aye, that we do. I will lead you there.”

 

She saw them walking away from the inn and then Spade broke the connection and she shook her hand as the bite healed. Panicked, she leapt from bed, not at all sure what to do. _**Could**_ they force her to return? _**Why**_ would they force her to return? Badhor let her go, but then Thranduil was gone. Perhaps when he returned he ordered Badhor to fetch her as he was the one to let her go? Why would he want her back?

 

She didn't know what was going on, but them trailing her this far from the halls sure wasn't a good sign. Fuck. Ok, so think, Zaile! She padded quietly over to her pack and called for coffee, any kind of caffeine, and got, of all things, a Red Bull vodka shot. Uh, no, alcohol was not what she needed. She called for non-alcoholic caffeine and got a whole lot of nothing. Great. Blearily, she splashed cold water on her face from the pitcher and basin, then tried to decide what was best to do.

 

It wasn't safe for her to venture into the wilds of this world this low on power. Healing Sigmar had taken a lot more than she expected, draining her dry and a portion of the power in the necklace. The little bit of sleep she had restored a little of her power, but not much. She didn't regret it, not at all, but the timing sure sucked. Still, if she stayed here, Vidumavi would...what, defend her against five elven warriors? No, she couldn't stay here. Vidumavi might try to defend her but the Beornings would need to maintain good relations with Thranduil. She was just some traveling stranger, almost certainly they would look the other way and not interfere when the elves did whatever they were here to do.

 

Was she ready to kill Badhor and his troop? No, not unless her life was definitely threatened. She wasn't even sure she could kill them at this level of power, though with Spade's help and the guns she probably could. Plus, she liked Badhor and she didn't even want to hurt him let alone kill him. Would he still be willing to hurt her if he had to?

 

She didn't want to find out. Better to take the risk and leave. She thought of Elladan and Elrohir. Maybe she could leave with them, if they were ready to go now? No. She had no idea where they stayed and she needed to leave now. Decision made, she dressed for the road. Called up multiple layers, as the morning was cold but the day might warm up before she got too far into the mountains. Under it, she added body armor and even inserted the uncomfortable level four plates—they should protect her against some hits and she hadn't forgotten that dark spelled spear hit. Had that thing penetrated her skin, well, she'd probably have been able to fight it off but it would have been unpleasant, and maybe more than unpleasant.

 

Next, guns and the ammo. The vest had spots for clips and she arranged them for the Glock. Didn't matter for the H&K, she only had the one clip of ammo. Added bullets for the rifle in case she had time to pull and use it and time to reload. Was there anything else? She called up weapons from the pack and then looked at her options. The knives she'd add, the sword she'd leave in the pack for now, and that was it.

 

She pulled out the map and looked at it as she quickly fed Spade and ate a bun. It looked to be about a four day journey if it were flat land, but there was no way to know how difficult it was going to be to navigate the high pass through the mountains. Ok, so, she could do this. Her power would grow stronger each day she traveled and maybe she could find a spot to hide and wait while her power grew.

 

Nope. She'd used a spell to hide her tacks and they'd still been able to track her here, though she had let it lapse once she left the forest. It hadn't occurred to her they'd pursue her past it, stupid on her part. Maybe she'd learn to stop underestimating Thranduil at some point, assuming she lived long enough. So, she had no way to know if they had been able to track her through the forest or if they'd just followed the path out to the exit and then looked for signs of her. The smart thing to do would be to assume they could track her no matter what she did and haul ass for Rivendell and hope Elrond would let her stay there and not just hand her over to Thranduil.

 

She felt a cold pit in her stomach at the thought of being back in those dungeons, and was completely mystified as to why he was having them pursue her. She had no oath to him, he had made it super obvious he didn't want her. But maybe he figured she'd stay and work for him? Or he had some other motive that she could not imagine. That seemed more likely, but regardless, fuck that. Whatever it was, it would be nothing good—his refusing her entrance to his quarters as a break up, wow, that had been mean as fuck. No, they'd have to drag her back before she'd sign up for more of that shit.

 

“Ok, Spade, let's roll.”

 

Spade waited at the door, tail lashing in urgency to be gone, and together they quietly slipped down the stairs and out through the door to the inn, Zaile securing it again with magic—she would not risk Vidumavi and her family, not for anything. Spade assumed her riding form and Zaile got on. Together they ran through the dark and silent town toward the exit gate, hoping that wherever the public baths were, they were away from there.

 

Nothing, no one, until she rode up to the exit gate and paused. One of the guards was the same as had seen her enter.

 

“Ah, the elf-maid and her cat. It's a wee bit early for you to leave, elfling. The gates do not open before dawn save for the direst of need.”

 

Zaile looked at him, then the other guard, and then looked back down the path she had came. No pursuers yet, but there was no way she could wait until dawn. In a town this size, Badhor would find her for sure long before then.

 

“Please let me leave. My need is dire indeed.”

 

He looked at her, then shook his head, “Why leave safety? Orcs roam the dark, and sometimes worse things. The Beornings can not be everywhere. Even we Northmen do not leave the walls in the night, only the skinchangers. Stay and live, elfling.”

 

“Thranduil seeks me. He has sent his rangers to fetch me back to him. Let me go, please.”

 

Both stood up straighter, “Nay, now we can not of a certainty. We would have no war with the king of the wood.”

 

“Please. I have committed no crime. Let me leave.”

 

They moved towards her and Spade made the decision for her. With a great leap the cat landed on the top of the wall and then jumped down and ran toward the gate house and the bridge. Shouts came from behind her, and she felt an arrow whiz past her shoulder but soon they approached the gate. It seem abandoned, perhaps not manned in the night, and then a great bear sauntered out and blocked the way, rising up on his hind legs to roar at them.

 

Spade halted, and Zaile shouted, “Look, I'm happy to pay any toll but I'm not being dragged back to that fucking asshole without a fucking fight, got it? Name your price, I'll pay it, just let me go.”

 

The bear fell back and snorted then sort of rippled into a man. A really good looking man. A really good looking well endowed naked man, she realized with a blush.

 

“Hold, Waldor, Agtorn, Marwald, Valoric, this is no enemy. Go back to your posts,” he turned back to her and smirked, “So, Thranduil sends his rangers after his lost love? And you would brave death in the Wild before returning with them?”

 

“He isn't my love, and whatever he wants me for, it isn't for love. He hates me.”

 

“Does he now? Are you so certain of that?”

 

“Uh, yeah, I am. Are you going to let me go or not?”

 

He smiled, white teeth glinting in the bright starlight,“Yes, but I will ask a toll of you.”

 

“Fine. What do you want?”

 

“A kiss. I would like to kiss the elf-maid that thawed Thranduil's cold heart.”

 

“No fucking way am I kissing some random naked stranger.”

 

The Beorning laughed, “Then you will not pass.”

 

“I don't have time for this shit. Fuck it. Let's do this. I think I can take one bear,” she got off Spade, who growled viciously and bared her fangs, then pulled out the H&K. Bear was on the fucking menu tonight.

 

At that the Beorning laughed so hard he doubled over, “No, no, you win, you may pass. But you will owe me that kiss and one day I will claim it.”

 

“I bet you fucking won't, bear-man.”

 

“My name is Arodbeorn, son of Grimbeorn the Old,” he looked at her as if that should mean something to her.

 

“I'm Zaile, and I really need to go.”

 

He looked at her, then said, “If you give me that kiss, I will bar Thranduil's rangers from following you into the mountains.”

 

She thought about it, then said, “Pass. They'll just go around the town and swim across. I know them; they'll figure out a way.”

 

“It will slow them down. In addition, I will escort you through the mountains and ensure your safety. One kiss.”

 

Zaile sighed. That was a good deal, but it felt gross to kiss him. “I really don't want to kiss you. Why would you want to kiss someone who doesn't want to kiss you?”

 

He looked at her with his piercing black eyes, then nodded, “Very well, Zaile, you may pass,” he stood to the side and called out to the men at the gate, “ Keep all word of the Lady Zaile's leaving silent. Go to the inn and instruct Vidumavi and her husband to say the Lady is indisposed. Do not allow Thranduil's rangers to exit until the morrow at the soonest.”

 

“Yes, my lord.”

 

As she walked past, he winked and then shifted to bear form and ambled after her. What the fuck was wrong with the males in this world?

 


	26. A Horrifying Discovery

After they bathed and dressed, no hurry as they knew precisely where she was and the Beornings would not allow a stranger to leave ere sunrise, Badhor had each of them blend into the area with a view of the inn. They would know when she left and follow her at a distance, make sure she was safe and report her destination to the king.

 

Badhor was ready to be home. Tiron would be incredibly displeased at his long absence, and he missed his husband and his own bed. How he regretted that he had not allowed the lady to return to her quarters that fateful night, and that his king had an unreasoning black temper in regards to the Noldor. Personally, he thought the Noldor were not so different from any other elf. The Lady Galadriel was kind and her Sindarin husband seemed well pleased with her.

 

The sons of Elrond, there they were, two of the best rangers and warriors he knew and certain to find the Lady Zaile appealing. Notorious flirts, especially Elrohir, and given the hurt Zaile felt it would be natural for her to find comfort with one of the handsome twins. Thranduil's wrath would be something to behold, and it would widen the gulf between them that Badhor still hoped to see heal. He sighed, and decided to simply wait and watch.

 

The sons of Elrond left the inn as if in a hurry, and Badhor was intrigued. He signaled to Gaelon and followed them, but they went into one of the Northmen's homes. After a short while, they exited dressed and prepared as for a journey. As he watched, they made for the exit closest to Rivendell and Badhor returned to the inn. It made sense they would begin their journey early in the day and frankly he was relieved to not have to deal with them.

 

After three days of watching and waiting, with no sign of Zaile or Spade, Badhor began to wonder if she were at the inn as all. The guard he spoke with had not emerged, and so he considered if he should inquire regarding her or enter the inn himself. If she were there, it would be a problem. But if she had somehow avoided them and slipped away, then her trail was likely cold by now.

 

No, not him. He would send Gaelon. She did not know him. But first he would send him to the marketplace to buy robes so he was not garbed as one from the Woodland realm.

 

* * *

 

To Zaile's _**intense**_ relief, Elladan and Elrohir caught up with them by the evening of the first day. Arodbeorn shifted to man form, giving her a look at what was, honestly, a truly spectacular ass, and greeted them like being buck naked was just the most normal thing ever.

 

“Hail, sons of Elrond, you are well met. Have you come to escort the Lady Zaile as well?”

 

“Arod, might you like some pants? The lady's face looks to be able to cook food, so much does it flame,” quipped Elrohir.

 

“If the lady wishes, it is only my desire to please.”

 

“Put on some fucking pants, bear man,” Zaile said dryly, “I need to keep my sight.”

 

“You wound me, lass, aye you do!”

 

“I will wound you in earnest if you do not keep yourself covered around the lady,” Elladan's voice was serious, and Zaile was surprised. Why would he care? Maybe it was just the proprieties.

 

“Aye, Elladan, look not at me in that manner.”

 

“Dress,” Elladan again, in a voice that absolutely was not joking.

 

She heard a moment of silence, then Arodbeorn said, “So Thranduil is to have some competition, is he? Do you mean to steal his lost love away?”

 

Zaile turned around and saw him dressed in pants, thankfully, and shouted, “You shut up, bear man, or I swear I'll shut you up permanently.”

 

He laughed uproariously at her again and she had really had quite enough of being laughed at. With a swift gesture she swept him off his feet and then, without thought, called vines from the earth to bind him fast. Furious, she was absolutely furious, and she stood over him and said, “You will shut up about my private life. When not in bear form, you will wear pants. Nod if you understand.”

 

He struggled, but she had him. For now, anyway. Her necklace stirred and she knew she would only be able to hold him long. And she held him, she _**could**_ hold him, her control had finally improved, though frankly she'd been so angry she hadn't thought about the possibility of squeezing the life out of him. Finally, he nodded and she released the bonds and stomped away to call wood and then set a bonfire ablaze with a wave—let them see what she really was, what she could do. She crouched down next to Spade and glared at all three males who looked back at her, each looking surprised and Arodbeorn looking positively pissed off. He started to walk towards her.

 

“Try me, bear man. See what happens.” Spade next to her bared her teeth and hissed.

 

“You're not just an elf-maid. I thought you looked small for an elf. What are you?”

 

“I'm tired, and I'm sick of being fucked with.”

 

He crouched on the other side of the fire, then stepped out of the light and in a bit returned in bear form. The great bear snuffled, then looked at her with it's little beady eyes.

 

“You do not want this fight, Arodbeorn,” Elladan's grim voice. He had drawn his sword and Elrohir had an arrow nocked.

 

Zaile stood. She could feel the necklace begin to stir, a fat green spark spitting from the gem. No doubt her eyes were glowing as well, as if that idiot bear needed any more warnings to not mess with her. He looked at her, then ambled back into the dark. She waited, and when he didn't return she sat back down and leaned against Spade wearily.

 

“We can not stay here,” Elladan's voice.

 

She opened her eyes, “Why not?”

 

“A fire this size? It is an invitation to any thing about for miles.”

 

She stood and said, “Fine, lead the way,” and with a tired gesture she snuffed out the fire.

 

* * *

 

Maelon reported back—she was gone. Had left for Lothlorien three days ago, according to the tavern gossip. Exiting and crossing the river to avoid the edges of the forest and Dol Guldur, though Badhor thought he was not sure which of those paths was worse. The mountains were riddled with orcs, and there were the marshlands of the Gladden Fields to cross, a beautiful but dangerous area for the unwary or inexperienced. Three days ahead of them, and alone in land even an experience ranger such as himself would find dangerous.

 

Badhor had seen fishing boats on the river. Perhaps they might find a fisherman willing to take them part of the way, enough to catch up with her somewhat. They made their way to the exit gate and headed out to pay their toll, sure to be hefty for all five of them.

 

There was Grimbeorn's youngest son, Arodbeorn. That one was proud and something of a fool, though that might be due to age—he was 28, barely grown for a Beorning. Badhor stepped up to pay their toll and Arodbeorn said, “So, you finally figured out she was gone, eh?”

 

Badhor looked at him blankly, as if he had no idea what he was talking about. Let him talk. He might know something of use.

 

“Cat got your tongue along with your king's love?” At this the Beorning laughed as if he'd made the best joke ever, “Though why your king would want a wizard is beyond me. He will have some competition; Elladan wants her for himself, else why would he defend her?”

 

Badhor simply looked interested and let the fool continue.

 

“They make for Rivendell, as you likely know, and once there Elladan will woo her away,” he turned away from them with a laugh, “I wish him luck. I would not have a wizard to wife.”

 

“How much is the toll?”

 

Arodbeorn cocked his head and said, “For you? Free if you plan to bring her back to your king.”

 

At that, Badhor nodded and then they made their way across the bridge to Arodbeorn's cruel laughter.

 

* * *

 

The brothers said nothing to her of Arodbeorn's words. In fact, in three days of traveling they said little to her at all and then only in hushed voices. In the evenings, she fed then from the stores in her pack, and it became something of a game for them to see if there was anything she didn't have, the brothers clearly more accepting of magic than that stupid bear man.

 

“Venison stew with fresh bread,” was Elladan request tonight. Zaile stuck her hand in the pack and called it forth, first the stew and then a choice of three loaves of bread.

 

“There's more bread if you want. Do you want butter?”

 

“Three loaves is more than enough I think, and yes,” he said with a smile.

 

“What would you like, Elrohir?”

 

“A bottle of Dorwinian,” he said with a smirk, “and grilled fish,”

 

The Dorwinian came but no fish. She handed him the bottle and said, “There is more wine, but I'm sad to say no fish.”

 

Elrohir laughed and said, “May I have the stew then?”

 

She called up a bowl of stew for him and herself as well, and then a warm dessert. Yum--the pack gave her a large berry pie, hot out of the oven. The weather was quite cold now, they were near to the pass itself, and so hot food very much appealed. She dished the pie into bowls and passed one to each of the males. They accepted gratefully, and once again lapsed into silence as they ate and drank.

 

“Whatever other faults he may have, Thranduil has excellent taste in wine,” Elrohir said, casting a smug glance her way and offering Elladan the bottle. Zaile ignored the innuendo, then realized the bottle itself gave away where it came from and blushed.

 

“Thank you, brother, but I would prefer to keep my wits. The first watch is mine.”

 

“I can take the first watch, Elladan,” Zaile offered, though she knew he would refuse. Both brothers explained that due her her lack of training and unfamiliarity with the area that she would very likely miss threats that they would perceive. It made sense, but it still felt wrong to sleep while they took turns watching.

 

“You may sit with me while I watch, if you wish,” he said offhandedly.

 

She saw the look of surprise on Elrohir's face, then his smirk and knew he was about to tease his brother if she declined.

 

“Yes, I would be glad to.”

 

Elladan nodded, “Very well then.”

 

Elrohir looked slightly disgruntled, but said nothing, and so they returned to silence.

 

They finished eating, wiped the dishes and cutlery, and Zaile stored them and the leftovers back in her pack. After thanking her for the meal and the wine, Elrohir wrapped himself in his cloak and went to sleep—perhaps they needed more sleep than typical elves since they were part human? They didn't sleep as often or as much as her, but they seemed to sleep more than Thranduil. Her face flamed as she considered how she knew that, and then a pang of longing for him pierced her. Stupid, she thought, to long for a male that despised her, and yet she did.

 

They had camped at a flat place in the mountains that backed up to solid rock, just slightly off the path. Elladan sat and leaned against a boulder, a spot that gave him a vantage on every approach to their site. They'd been on the road for three days, and none of them could be described as fresh, but she sat next to him anyway and then Spade came up and leaned against her and purred. At least between them she was somewhat warm.

 

The moon shone a thin sliver in the clear star filled sky and she felt her power renewing. Carefully she shunted some of it into Spade and the necklace, but left enough for her to do some magic. Even without the moon, it was a bright night, and the stars seemed close enough to reach out and pluck from the sky. She glanced at the male next to her and thought him quite handsome, his features classically beautiful, eyes a clear almost silvery gray and long dark hair the match of hers. He was rather Thranduil's opposite, she thought, except that his skin was the same slightly luminescent pale perfection.

 

After a moment, he looked back at her and held her gaze, then looked away after moment.

 

“I think I still owe you some questions, eight? Is that right?”

 

“Yes, but I hardly think I will be able to train you on the morrow.”

 

“You can train me in Imladris.”

 

He glanced at her, then nodded. “You flee the Elvenking's realm.”

 

“Is that a question or a statement?”

 

“Do you always interrupt?”

 

“Well, you did pause. I didn't know you were working up to a monologue, you've been pretty quiet since the bear man and his big stupid mouth,” she said wryly.

 

He huffed a quiet laugh, then, “This path and pass are relatively safe, but my brother and I are used to traveling where silence is necessary to survive. It is a habit unrelated to Arodbeorn and his fool's tongue.”

 

They sat quietly for a while and then Zaile said, “Yes, I left but I didn't think anyone would come looking for me. I don't know why Thranduil sent his rangers after me, or even if they are after me. It could be a coincidence.”

 

“It isn't. They were watching the inn on the day we left—Vidumavi told us you had left and urged us to follow after you. Badhor even trailed us, but he soon left off to return to the inn.”

 

“Great. I have no idea what they want with me.”

 

Elladan said nothing, and it bothered her, “Do you not believe me?”

 

“Thranduil is not known to act impulsively.”

 

“What? Are you serious? Are we talking about the same person?”

 

He turned to look at her, then said, “Perhaps he was different with you, but no, he rarely acts without considering all the consequences at length. He is cautious, to a fault, unlike his father Oropher.”

 

She shook her head, “Definitely a different person from the one I met.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

Zaile lapsed into silence and then Elladan said, “How so?”

 

“How so what?”

 

“How was Thranduil different?”

 

“He was moody, volatile, impulsive, unforgiving, angry, mean,”

 

“You sound as if you dislike him.”

 

“No, I don't. I didn't. He wasn't bad at first. I mean he was moody and impulsive, but not the rest.”

 

“How did you come to his lands?”

 

“That's where the portal dropped me. I helped some of his people and then he contracted with me for a year of service.”

 

“Ah, and you...”

 

“No, he released me from the contract.”

 

“Thranduil released you from a contract of service? With your power?” Elladan's voice showed his surprise.

 

“He wanted to court me. He did court me.”

 

“And you refused him?”

 

“No. I loved him. Not at first. I was, I thought I was too young to marry, to assume such a responsibility. But I fell in love with him, and I thought he loved me.”

 

Elladan said nothing, just listened.

 

“My people, we are called the Ettuli. Until I came to this realm, I didn't know we came from here, and I knew nothing of our history—they don't teach it or talk about it, not at all. Not the Valar, nothing. I learned my history after I loved him, and he learned about it at the same time I did as one of his councilors overhead me talking to the librarian about my lineage and ran to tell him. I am of the Noldor. My grandmother is Irime and my cousin is Maglor. He is the king of our realm. ”

 

She figured she'd get this out quick, see the change on his face early when he realized who she was, see it before she liked him and his brother any more than she already did, and that way it would hurt less when they looked at her with disgust and distrust.

 

“Maglor lives? Father will be so pleased! Is he well?” Elladan's voice reflected nothing but surprise and joy.

 

“Yes, he's happy though sometimes a strange melancholy comes on him but his wife and children help with that. He is a good and kind king, avoiding conflict if at all possible. I, it is still difficult to believe he is the same Maglor I read about, but he is. I can tell from the drawings.”

 

There was silence for a time, then Elladan said, “Thranduil cast you aside?”

 

“Worse. I did not know he knew. I thought to prove myself to him in battle, to show my devotion, and then tell him. But he already knew. I found out on the morning of the battle. He was...not kind to me. But he allowed, no, demanded I prove myself to him using my power. We won the battle with no loss or injury to anyone, but I, when I use too much power I have to sleep for a long time. I was out for two weeks. When I woke, I was in the healing halls. He said nothing to me, but then I avoided him when he came there, though he never asked for me when he did. I think, I guess I did not want to hear him tell me he no longer cared for me. Perhaps he did not come to the halls for me at all. He could have summoned me, but he did not. I don't know. After two more weeks, my handmaid came and asked me if I no longer cared for the king, why I had not returned to the royal quarters he had designated for me. I, I was surprised and I thought that, perhaps, he, he still cared for me.”

 

Silence. She could feel Elladan listening, waiting for her to finish her story.

 

“The guard turned me away.”

 

An intake of breath, as if in shock, and Elladan ground out, “He takes his hatred of Maglor out on you.”

 

“Two of the guards defied the king's order and allowed me to get my things. I left. None hindered me, but the king was gone hunting. I guess, when he came back, he wasn't happy about that. I have no idea why he wants me back, but I'm not going back there.”

 

She took a deep breath, determined to not cry. It was time to put that behind her and move on. She wrapped her arms around her knees and leaned her head on Spade's warm side, the great cat turning to rub her face against the top of her head.

 

Elladan laid his hand upon her shoulder, then said gently, “You will be safe in Imladris, Zaile. My father will welcome you gladly and be filled with joy to hear of Maglor's healing. But I will leave him to speak to you of that.”

 

She nodded, then said, “If you don't mind, I think I might go to sleep.”

 

“Of course. Sleep well, Zaile.”

 

After she left, Elladan thought long on what she said. His brother joined him and together they sat in silence.

 

“Did she tell you what happened?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“Well, brother, out with it.”

 

“Thranduil courted her, even moved her into the royal quarters.”

 

“Thranduil? Truly?”

 

“Aye. There was no lie in her.”

 

“So, she fled him why?”

 

“He denied her.”

 

“What? No. Thranduil does nothing without a plan, and he would not be so cruel. No, he would not move her into the royal quarters if this were but a passing fancy, and when has the Elvenking ever had a passing fancy?”

 

“He denied her publicly, refused her entrance to the royal quarters without warning.”

 

Elrohir was shocked into silence, “Has he gone mad? Is it possible?”

 

“No. She is of the Noldor,” Elladan said grimly.

 

“That is obvious, brother. Surely Thranduil knew this?”

 

“Perhaps. But he did not know her king was Maglor, her grandmother Irime. She knew not her history, discovered it in the king's library and he learned of her ancestry at the same time.”

 

“What, he offered to court her without bothering to inquire as to her family? How is his omission the lady's fault that he should treat her so? Wait, and Maglor is alive and king? Father's Maglor?”

 

“The same. Somehow, he and some of the Exiles left this world and founded a new realm, and there they left their history behind as well, even the Valar.”

 

Elrohir let out a low whistle, “Father will be glad indeed to speak to Zaile. But, Thranduil, he rejected her. Why does he pursue her now?”

 

“He was hunting when she left. She thinks he regrets that the guard allowed her to leave.”

 

“If he does not want her, why would he wish to keep her there?”

 

Elladan turned to look at him, and sighed, “Brother, I know not. This little sounds like the Thranduil we know, except for his dislike and distrust of the Noldor—that is familiar.”

 

“He must love her.”

 

“Perhaps. But he has behaved as one who hated her. To publicly humiliate her,” Elladan shook his head, “She is a kind soul. Did you know she healed Sigmar?”

 

“ _ **Healed**_ him? Father could not, surely..”

 

“Yes. Healed him. I saw him when I went in the back to get supplies, the same boy but not. Vidumavi said it was terrifying, Zaile's eyes glowed green, that it hurt terribly and that Sigmar's screams had her imploring Zaile to stop. But once done, the boy, he was as he should have been, more so even--he is perfect,as if no harm ever came to him. Vidumavi looked upon her and it was as if Zaile gave a portion of her own life to the boy, so tired was she, so drained. Do you know what she asked for in recompense?”

 

“Nay, what could she for so great a gift?”

 

“Honey cakes. A pile of honey cakes.”

 

“That's all?”

 

“Yes. She said she was simply returning Vidumavi's kindness to her, something about each of them doing what they could and it being equal.”

 

Elrohir was quiet for a time, “She seems very young.”

 

“Yes. Thranduil has much to answer for, I think.”

 

Elrohir looked at his brother, then said, “She will be safe in Imladris. Father will protect her.”

 

Elladan stood and said, “Let us make for Imladris with all haste. Wake me before dawn. If Thranduil's rangers seek her, they will not rest.”

 

* * *

 

“Hail Thranduil, Elvenking, I come with news,” Garc croaked, black wings shimmering purple in the afternoon sun.

 

“Speak,”

 

“Zaile makes for Imladris with the sons of Elrond. We are three days behind, and take the path to the High Pass after them.”

 

Thranduil felt both annoyance and relief. She was safe, but she made for Imladris with the sons of Elrond. Jealousy forked through him and he frowned. They were both great warriors, assuredly she would be safe, but they were young male warriors, in their prime, and both were known to be accomplished flirts. Never dishonorable, no, and they had never truly courted any, but they were not the companions he would have chosen for her, not at all.

 

Thranduil thought, then said, “My instructions remain the same, though once she arrives Badhor may speak or no as he sees fit.”

 

Garc rose into the air, soon naught but a black speck against the clear blue sky.

 

Thranduil turned and walked back to his councilors and his son. So far, the trackers had found traces of Smeagol but he remained elusive. Soon, he must send word to Imladris of the loss, though such word need must go by trusted messenger as it could not be risked. He could send word to her as well, though he hardly knew what to say. Word had spread that she lived, and with it a degree of hope and lightness. The Sindar spoke of her return as if it were certain, as if they had forgotten her humiliation. The Silvan...were silent. He sensed their quiet disapproval, saw it in small gestures—his bed made with slightly less care, his food not quite as perfect, a single small spot left on a robe, nothing obvious, nothing that would harm him or the realm, but enough to make it quite clear who they considered at fault. Thranduil could not fault their judgment, and so he ignored it.

 

He entered the council chamber and sat again in the large intricately carved oak chair at the head of the table.

 

“What news, father?”

 

“Zaile makes for Imladris, and is accompanied by the sons of Elrond.”

 

“Glad tidings indeed, my king!” This from Garthil, but Galadas looked upon him and he saw compassion and concern in his eyes.

 

“It is good to know she is safe, and travels with warriors well able to keep her so,” Galadas said quietly, “Perhaps a messenger might be sent, or even a royal visit might be in order?”

 

“With the Enemy resurgent? The Black Riders seen?” Tuel, her voice concerned, “My king, the risk to yourself, to the kingdom is too great. Should you fall or be captured...”

 

“Tuel, have done. Badhor will speak to her, and we await the trackers for word of Smeagol. Let us turn our discussions to preparing for war.”

 

Long did they plan and fruitfully. Weapons and armor arrived via barge from Erebor weekly as part of his agreement to defend Erebor's flank. He commissioned further armaments and heavier armor, opening the coffers of his kingdom to Tauriel to negotiate with as she saw fit—he would not make the mistake of his father and send his people into battle poorly armed and armored.

 

Zaile clearing the mountains gave a strong buffer of protection between the halls and Dol Guldur and the virtue there so far seemed to repel evil things from re-infesting. Fire was always a risk, spreading out from the dead portion of the forest to the part that yet lived, and orcs were ever fond of burning. The rangers would cut fire breaks around all settlements and throughout the forest as a whole between here and the portion sick and dead. He little liked the idea, and yet it was better to lose some trees than all.

 

Finally, the council ended and he stood, then walked back to the royal quarters. His son trained and so he found himself drawn to the place he least wished to be, as a tongue seeks a missing tooth. Opening the door to her quarters, all was as it was when she left. He had allowed none entrance, the bed unmade, her faint scent still lingering there, a single dark hair shining against the linens. Her discarded robe slung over a chair, slippers cast aside in her haste to flee him.

 

Gathering her robe in his arms, he laid upon her bed and wondered what he would do when her scent was gone, how long duty would hold him here and if he would seek her whether she wished for him to or no.

 

* * *

 

Zaile had the strangest dream. It felt as if the wall to her back was weirdly getting softer, like she was slowly slipping back. Suddenly, she felt herself begin to slip down a tunnel, her eyes snapping open to see Spade's sleepy surprised face and then the light was gone, the trapdoor snapped shut.

 

Down and down, the incline increasing until it was more of a fall than a roll. She banged against rocks on the way down, her head ringing with hits, pain flaring again and again as cuts formed and healed until finally she landed on her back, luckily wedged between what were probably stalagmites—it was utterly black, lightless. Her first thought--if she'd been human, or even an elf, she'd probably be dead after that trip.

 

Screeching and yowling around her, hands pawing her in the dark, then the necklace flared to life, the pale green glow revealing a circle of dead beings around her as the rest of the creatures dodged back, cursing her for killing their fellows.

 

“Alive it is, alive, and a wizard!”

 

“Faugh, but a little one and a she-elf! Hardly any meat, and bad tasting it will be.”

 

“Like to the she-elf wood witch! Hated, hated light bringer!!”

 

They fired arrows at her, threw spears--the shield would hold easily and long against these tactics. But how was she to escape this place? She looked up and cast for light, the creatures screeching and cursing her anew as she illuminated the cave ceiling to see far above her a series of rough holes presumably leading to the surface. Safe for now, she sat and considered her options, sticking her fingers in her ears to drown out the incredibly cacophony of those orc things so she could concentrate.

 

She had no idea which hole she came out of, but she knew without a doubt that Spade was currently digging at it. Elladan and Elrohir were not fools, and they had rope, so it seemed pretty likely if she just waited here for a while they would climb down. They'd see the light of her shield in the darkness, and she could call to them to throw her some rope, then climb out of here and get back on the road pretty easily. There absolutely seemed zero reason to go wandering around in the dark. The necklace would keep her safe almost indefinitely against these kinds of attacks, as long as she stayed in one place. It could maintain the shield if she moved about, but it took a lot more power as the shield constantly readjusted location to match her movement. Better to sit still and wait, at least for until she gave Spade and hopefully Elladan and Elrohir a chance to find and help her.

 

Well, she'd wanted to have a good look at an orc and there were certainly plenty of them for her to look at now. They still felt like dead things to her, sort of. Like a blend between death and life, but dark and evil, Thranduil was right—these were creatures of utter darkness, but at the center of them was a flare of light that felt wrong, like it didn't belong there. The bodies looked as if they were on the cusp of rotting, tumor laden and foul. Some had cuts closed with twine that did not bleed but showed no sign of healing either. There was some intelligence there, they were not like birds parroting, but it felt, again, wrong. Life, but not life, unnatural and evil.

 

This had to be the work of some necromancer, magical skill far far beyond her own, but she could see the threads of a dark work. Not how to make it, but more like the pattern of it. As she sat waiting, she entered into the meditation she used to understand complicated spells as she puzzled over these beings. They had natural bodily functions—they were not shy about them, that's for sure. They spoke of eating her, so they ate. Zombies ate too, but they did not excrete anything unlike these orc things. The body then was alive, so what was the death she felt? And their bodies, they seemed in a varying states of disintegration, what was that about? Maybe age? Didn't seem like natural aging though, more like they were cancerous, dusty with age or wet with something like rot.

 

Something felt familiar about them too, like she had felt something like them before. She traced the lines of the spell and found they were somewhat interconnected, sort of like a colony of ants or bees, and the threads wove together to lead back in a rope to what she assumed was their master. Again, this was very like to zombies. No group of sentient creatures could be controlled in such a fashion, be turned to pure evil or pure good for that matter. The hallmark of sentient creatures was choice, be it moral or simply left or right. These things had no choice but to be destructive, but they were not just animals, they clearly could think. So, sentient but not. What the hell?

 

She fell deeper into meditation, puzzling over how this was possible, the work fascinating in its complexity. It had something to do with that spark of light she felt at the center of these beings of pure darkness, a spark that felt incomplete and yearned to be complete. That was part of how the necromancer had tied them together and controlled them. It felt something like a split soul, like when a necromancer takes the soul of a living creature and breaks it into pieces, uses it to power dead creatures and link them into a whole for use. The spell could be used to ensure a group of zombies coordinated together in combat, or to create a network of spies that instantly share information between them, the necromancer holding a part of the soul and thus able to see, for a time, all their creations' sights. But eventually the soul burns out the dead bodies and fights it's way free to find its component parts and reform; no one could leash a soul for long, not if they placed it in flesh. It wasn't exactly that spell either, and she felt frustrated by her lack of knowledge.

 

No Vertas witch or Sorcerii really _**knew**_ necromancy, it was the province of the absolute worst of the Pravus faction, a truly evil avocation. The Vertas faction only studied how to counter it. Some might toy with it a bit as the sorcerer who trapped her here seemed to have done—she'd read a few of his spells that fell under the category of death magic if not actual necromancy--but most did not. Necromancy's corrupting influence was easy to see on the faces of the necromancers that used it, the magic aging them like mortals.

 

Still, Vertas knew the basic rules. Dead flesh was the necromancer's province. It had to be dead. You couldn't place a soul in living flesh as all living flesh had a soul already, a vital force that _**made**_ it living. If you displaced the resident soul with the soul of a dead being, the body died. Always. But these bodies lived and yet something about them felt dead. She looked and looked, disgusted and also fascinated at the skill of the work. How was it possible?

 

What if you had the power to make empty flesh? Not really alive, too dark, too evil, too much the opposite of life to make actual life, and not enough power to make a living soul, but what if you had enough power could you make empty living _**flesh**_? You'd have to be a god or close to it, and what god would do something like that? It just made no sense and so she worried at the spell as she sat in the dark and waited, trying to see what those things were and how they were made, _**if**_ they were made.

 

Zaile screamed when she saw what had been done, the parts coming together and suddenly she could better see the whole of it. She felt the scattered parts of the souls of dead elves tied to, no, _**powering**_ , flesh that reproduced and with each birth split and tied the soul more tightly to the network of flesh. Millennia of fractured loneliness, Sweet Hecate save her, and the preening wicked glee of the one who created the spell had her bent over retching, vomiting uncontrollably. Living flesh imbued with a the spark of a stolen soul fractured into thoughtless parts, not life, not living, but some grotesque parody of life. Any being so split would forever be his thrall, and he planned to destroy all life until those things were all that was left.

 

Horror, horror, she had to get out of here, this graveyard prison, she felt them now, tied in a weaving that guaranteed that when one orc fell, the soul would remain split among the others. All the orcs that shared a soul would have to fall simultaneously, the threads woven between each orc that shared a soul ensured there was little chance of the soul's escaping.

 

But what would happen if one were to _**pull**_ on the thread? She couldn't resist the urge, like an unbearable itch, and so she sent out a tendril of her own magic to the closest thread, wove them together along with her will and _**yanked**_ as hard as she could.

 

The orc nearest her squealed, the soul part springing free, a spark of pure white light in the darkness of the cave, and then that was joined by another spark, and another, as she pulled as hard as she could, digging in her mental heels to pull, pull hard, her power fast diminishing but she _**would**_ keep pulling, the light growing, a faint outline of a figure beginning to slowly form.

 

Orcs screeching, cries of “Flee! The wizard turns us to animals, flee!”

 

“Call for the boss, let him deal with her!”

 

Fuck, that didn't sound good, but she almost had it, just one, one soul, she wanted to know, _**had**_ to know what would happen. Pull, the outline clarifying, pull, her necklace twirling, green light blinding her, and she could feel it was a race between the limits of her power and the length of the binding thread.

 

“Zaile!”

 

She heard Elrohir's cry above her and ignored it. Almost there, so close, one more hard pull. The necklace let out a great spark and fell against her chest with a thud, completely depleted.

 

Some thing landed next to her.

 

“Tie it around your waist, I'll pull you up!”

 

Got it! The thread came free, joy, such joy filling her, light, wholeness, gratitude, a purity in that dark place that wavered and coalesced into a being of light, smiling, it, no, he was smiling and she heard inside her head, _**thank you**_ , but it was more than words could express. The being turned, and she heard a summons from a voice stern but not evil, a call as if to rest. For a moment she felt the urge to shuck off her body, she was so tired, _**so tired**_ , so easy to follow him. The voice, kind now, pleased with her for some reason, said something like, _**not you, not yet**_ and a wave of power pushed through her, the necklace emitting a faint glow as the power hit them both.

 

She staggered, falling to her hands and knees, gasping for breath as tears trailed down her face.

 

“Zaile, for the love of the Valar, tie it around your waist!”

 

“Ok, ok,” she was so tired, so wanted to sleep but she felt something coming, like a heavy ball distorting the fabric of magic in the area with the weight of its power and evil intent. And it was pissed too, she could feel its rage, so she tied the rope and yelled, “I might pass out, but you can't really hurt me. Just drag me after you through the tunnel, I'll heal.”

 

Elrohir disappeared and she rose into the air swiftly, the hole getting nearer and nearer. She was maybe fifteen feet below it when an arrow hit her thigh with a meaty thunk.

 

“Fuck!”

 

Zaile shunted power to the necklace, wavering close to unconsciousness as the shield sputtered to life. More arrows came to thud against the shield, she'd be a damned pin cushion if it failed, and then the biggest fucking orc she'd ever seen came into the cavern clutching a spear so huge it was like a harpoon for a whale.

 

Radiated evil, positively came off the gigantic orc in waves like heat off a fire. If it was an orc. Whatever that thing was, there was no spark of stolen life fueling it, no, it was _**evil,**_ like some embodiment of death clothed in flesh. And that spear was spelled, horribly so, it would pierce her shield and as weak as she was the spell would rush through her as fire through dry wood. She didn't see the full purpose of the spell, but considering the source she felt sure it would be something designed to do far worse than just kill her.

 

“Pull, sweet Hecate, pull, get me out of here!”

 

Virtually powerless, the necklace so exhausted it could only shield her from the most minor of attacks, what she could do?

 

It lifted the spear, smirked to see her swinging gently like a target for practice, and then it threw.

 

Zaile remembered one of the first spells she learned, a silly child's spell, and in that split second thought of an adjustment to make, something that would require only slightly more power.

 

_**Swing, swing me fast** _

_**like a rocket blast.** _

 

The rope instantly swung her up and out of the way of the spear to smack her violently against the ceiling of the cave, stalactites piercing her until gravity pulled her off them to hang limply, blood dripping off her extremities as Elrohir pulled her up to bang against the tunnel mouth until she straightened enough for him to yank her into the narrow passage, the sounds of cheering orcs dimming as she lost consciousness.

 

 


	27. In Imladris

So, I thought I posted the first half of this already. Here's an insanely long chapter as a result. I struggled with parts of this one, so I hope it came out well.

 

 

Elladan first saw his brother climb out of the hole, then he swiftly grabbed the rope and joined him in pulling out Zaile.

 

“I heard a great cry brother, and then nothing,” Elrohir's voice betrayed his fears, and Elladan's heart thudded at the thought of her death.

 

She was a pitiful sight when they finally pulled her out, hair matted with blood, neck lolling. Her clothes were naught but bloody rags, the broken shaft of an arrow protruding out of her thigh, he thought her dead and yet she was still somehow breathing. As he watched, a cut upon her face healed itself shut then disappeared without a scar and he considered that whatever her heritage was besides Noldor, it was not human.

 

Swiftly, Elrohir knelt next to her. He grasped her hand and sent his fea into her—he was by far the better healer of the two of them. Elladan crouched down on the other side and began to look for the sources of all that blood--most likely an abdominal wound. Parting her the shreds of her clothes, he watched in wonder as her body healed and pushed out what looked like a piece of a stalactite. What was she? What creature had such healing powers?

 

She was fair, he sensed no wickedness in her, but her story of coming from another world was certainly that much more believable. Nothing, no one in this world healed like that. He glanced at the arrow wound. Her body seemed unable to push it out, or perhaps it was just slower to do so. Gently he turned her leg; the arrow had not pierced through, and so he must extract the head. Better to do it now while she was unconscious. He went to his pack and retrieved the kit his father gave him for battle surgery and water. First, he cut away her clothing at the site, then, once the wound was exposed, washed his hands with soap and water. Taking the thin blade suited for this sort of work, he sharpened it and cut a slit to each side of the wound. Then, letting the shaft of the arrow be his guide, he felt for the head.

 

There, and thankfully it was designed more to pierce than to shred, the head fairly small and the edges not that jagged. Gently he guided the head out and then looked at it, smelled it—not poisoned, thank the Valar. Though perhaps she would be proof against the poisons of this world too. As he watched, the wound closed, the area moving through all the stages of healing within minutes and not even leaving a scar. No wonder she had been so confident about facing Arodbeorn; between her magic and her healing ability she would be a far more formidable opponent than she appeared.

 

Elladan joined his fea to his brother's, offering him what support he could give. As he touched her hand, he felt her fingers close around his and was heartened by it, though she was weary, so weary, he could feel it as he gave her a portion of his strength. Finally, both brothers sat back and sighed in weariness, Elrohir looking down at her in something like wonder.

 

“I think all she requires is rest,” Elrohir said.

 

“Thranduil's people will catch up with us if we stay here. Could we carry her?”

 

“Do you think they would attempt to return her by force?”

 

Elladan sighed, “I know not, but I would prefer to meet them in Imladris all the same.”

 

Her cat woke up from where it had earlier suddenly shrunk and then collapsed, stretched and yawned with its little pink tongue curling, then sauntered over and curled up next to Zaile, blue eyes blinking lazily at him. So much of this situation was strange that Elladan decided to accept it and wait to ask his father about it. Could the cat carry her?

 

“I know not if you can understand me, but Thranduil's rangers pursue your mistress. We needs must make good time. Might you resume your larger form and carry her?”

 

The little cat simply looked at him, then blinked. He very much suspected she understood him just fine, but would not admit it.

 

“Very well, then we must do so.”

 

They rigged a basic travois, set her in the center of it wrapped in their blankets—her clothes were utter rags, but they had no other for her and her pack would not open for them, so blankets were their only option. Her cat leapt up and burrowed under the blankets to sleep with her and they were off.

 

They took turns carrying her pack or pulling the travois and made good time through the pass and down the mountain. Far better than Thranduil's rangers did they know this terrain, and thus had an advantage that might outweigh the delay of transporting an injured comrade. Taking care to not jar or disturb her, though she slept as one who was under an enchantment, they did not stop for nightfall, but ran through the clear and starry night.

 

It was possible that she actually was enchanted. Elrohir told a strange story of what he saw when he arrived finally at the cavern. She stood, hand outstretched, within a dome of pale green light. Her eyes shone pale green, like the first leaf of spring, and she radiated life and goodness. Whatever her magic was, it seemed like to their father's, but stronger. Elrohir was surprised at the strength, that he could feel it easily from the roof of the cavern.

 

He said he saw the outline of an ellon's fea, no hroa, just the fea, and that she seemed to be pulling it from somewhere. Beautiful, he said it was utterly beautiful, and that he felt the ellon's thankfulness and gratitude. Had she released some fea trapped in that dark place? He had never been so curious about another, and knew father would be as well. There was absolutely no chance that they would surrender her to Thranduil whatever his claim on her might be, she was kin and an utterly enthralling mystery.

 

Elladan thought back to the other night when she trusted him with her tale. Her pale skin shining under the stars and those strange green eyes huge in her small face. Such a little female to hold such power and strength, he found her deeply interesting. At first he had merely wished to flirt as was he and his brother's wont and to learn the origin of another peredhel. There were few of them, and all known, so to encounter one he had never met, and one so beautiful, of course he was intrigued. But now, now he found he liked her, that it was something more. How much more he did not know.

 

His father was forever despairing that neither he nor his brother would ever take a wife. Now that Arwen had almost certainly chosen a human, and a human life, his father grieved the eventual loss of his daughter. He knew his father thought them likely follow the same path and take human wives with as much time as they spent with the Dunedain-- love was at least partly a matter of time and familiarity after all. But neither brother wished a wife of any race, not in these dark times.

 

Not unless she were an exceptionally powerful warrior, or like unto the Lady Galadriel. Never again would either brother care to look upon a female they loved as they looked upon their mother. Easier it was to simply not take a wife until the lands were cleansed or they made the journey to Valinor. Still, were they to meet such a female and she be free? Elladan looked back upon the Lady Zaile, and considered her. Difficult to kill, certainly. Powerful. Fair of heart and form. His father would favor her.

 

He caught Elrohir smirking at him and said, “It is time to switch.”

 

“Oh, aye, that's why your eyes lingered on the lady, no doubt.”

 

Elladan did not reply and took the pack, shifting the travois to Elrohir.

 

“So, Arodbeorn was near to truth then, brother?”

 

Elrohir never could let anything lie. “If your feet were as fast as your tongue, brother, we would already be there.”

 

Elrohir laughed and said, “If you woo her not, then perhaps I will. Powerful, beautiful, there is much there to admire.”

 

Elladan was surprised to feel a flash of jealousy, quickly stifled, “You are welcome to make the attempt brother, but let me remind you to whom she has shown favor so far.”

 

Elrohir looked at him keenly, then said, “Have done, brother, I will leave her be. But Thranduil I think will not.”

 

“She will be free to pursue her own path in Imladris.”

 

Elrohir said nothing, just smirked.

 

Through wood and glen, they ran without stopping. They could go long without sleep, as long as a full elf though they were less cheerful about it certainly, their human heritage preferring some sleep over the sort of meditation sufficient for full elves.

 

On the morning of the third day, they entered the lands around Imladris and smiled to see Glorfindal riding as part of the watch this day.

 

“Hail, Glorfindal, we come bearing a kinswoman who sleeps as if enchanted, though no spell can we detect,” Elrohir paused, then added, “and we are followed by Thranduil's rangers who have some interest in the lady.”

 

Glorfindal's face reflected surprise, then he said, “I will carry the lady swiftly to your father,” he turned to the rest of the guard, “accompany them to Imladris.”

 

With that, he brought his horse over to the travois and Elladan lifted the lady up to him wrapped still in a blanket. Glorfindal made a face as he leaned over to receive her, then said, “She stinks of old blood, an abdominal wound or wounds. Might she travel better by travois?”

 

“Nay, Glorfindal. The lady is sound of body. She healed the wounds; I have never seen the like of it,” replied Elrohir.

 

“Indeed? Ah, there is certain to be a tale here worthy to hear. Make haste to follow!”

 

At that Glorfindal grasped Zaile to him and rode toward Imladris at speed, golden hair shining in the sun as he rode.

 

* * *

 

Zaile awoke slowly, feeling strength flowing into her from someone holding her hand. Grandmother. She was the only one strong enough to wake her when she overtaxed her magic. Somehow she had gotten back home, her family had found her and taken her home and her grandmother held her hand. She sighed, and said, “Grandmother, how _**glad**_ I am to be home.”

 

Elrohir laughed and said, “Grandmother Glorfindal, a fitting appellation. Slayer of balrogs, cosseter of children and the ill!”

 

A sigh, and then a new voice, gentle but full of power, “Elrohir, ever must you tease, but I am glad if the lady feels I am like to her family.”

 

Zaile's eyes opened and she glared at the blond male holding her hand, snatched it away from him as she sat up and called forth the necklace's shield. It sparked to life around her as she pulled in her arms and legs to sit huddled in the middle of the bed, feeling quite lost and instantly angry about it. The blond male withdrew, his smile faltering, eyes compassionate and concerned.

 

“That's it! That's the shield I told you about,” Elrohir cried triumphantly.

 

“Be still, Elrohir! Can you not see she is afraid?” The blond, Glorfindal she guessed, said and pulled Elrohir back from her bed.

 

Ok, so Elrohir was here. Where was Elladan and, more importantly, where was she? Zaile blinked, feeling woozy still, and watched as Spade leapt up on the bed to slip into the shield, crawl into her lap and begin to purr. Ok, so, maybe they weren't in danger then. She let the shield lapse and felt the better for it, then surveyed the room she was in, and the many people here with her.

 

Elrohir, and there was Elladan just arriving, and behind him Badhor. Her heart stuttered, and she looked to see if Thranduil were here, half hoping and half dreading, but of course he was not. Just that big blond Glorfindal radiating power, some dark haired guy who looked rather like the twins who also radiated power, and quite possibly the most beautiful female she had ever seen who also looked like the brothers, so probably their sister.

 

Why the fuck was there a crowd in her bedroom and where the fuck was she? First things first, though.

 

She fixed Badhor with an angry stare and said, “I won't go back there. Not for anything. No way.”

 

Badhor spread his hands and bowed his head, but before he could speak, the twin's father spoke, “I am Elrond, leader of this realm. You need not fear that any will seek to force you. Thranduil's rangers have returned to their realm, save only Badhor who lingered out of concern for you. Peace, Zaile, you are welcome in Imladris.”

 

Her stomach growled, and she blushed, “Thank you, Lord Elrond. I, if you don't mind I would like to bathe and then eat, please.”

 

His eyes twinkled with amusement, and she rather thought she might like him. She could see where the twins got their teasing nature as he said, “Badhor informed us you would awaken quite hungry, and my sons have regaled us with tales of your prowess in eating honey cakes. I will warn the kitchens, Zaile.”

 

She smiled at him tentatively, and saw he was pleased to see her do so, then he bowed and left and the rest followed him out, only Elladan hesitating, his eyes meeting hers for a moment until he inclined his head and left as well. Spade immediately leapt out of the bed and looked over her shoulder, clearly waiting for her to follow. Taking a moment to orient herself, she looked around the room. It was beautiful, open to the elements on one side, and the air was fresh, the land wholesome feeling; it felt like _**home.**_ She could see where her people got their architecture style, and even the carved headboard, the tapestries, the furniture was closely related to what she would see in her realm.

 

These elves mostly looked to be Noldor too, and they seemed like lovely kind people, far more welcoming and friendly than the elves of Thranduil's realm. Perhaps her people had changed over the millennia? She hadn't read much past the destruction of the Havens of Sirion, hadn't had a chance. Supposedly the library here was the best in all of this world, the perfect place for her to study and hopefully find a way back home. Though she paused at the idea of leaving, then wondered why she paused.

 

Thranduil? Yes, though she knew with a pang that he did not care for her any more. Foolish to linger here for him. But as she thought, she realized it was something more. Those orc things, the spell on them, it horrified her the idea of her kinsmen trapped forever in thrall to evil. Thousands of orcs though, maybe millions of them, and freeing a single soul had utterly depleted her until that strange being gave her some power. And that whole thing was so weird she wasn't sure what to think of it—who even was that being? Where was that place she'd almost gone? So much of this world was an utter mystery. She didn't have enough power to wholesale free the souls, and one at a time, gods, that would take millennia. But just leaving them like that, it felt wrong, and like she was leaving something, some _**responsibility**_ , undone.

 

Elrond might know something, or Celebredom? There must be some way to communicate between realms, surely? She would start with Elrond and also see what the she could find in the sorcerer's books. It would be an overwhelming task to free them all, too much for her, but she felt...something. Some geas of a god, yes, like when she made a vow to Hecate. Her prayer to Nienna? It was unclear, vague, annoyingly so.

 

Well, she'd likely be able to think more clearly after she bathed and ate. She stood and followed Spade into the bathing chamber. Oh, this was lovely. A softly steaming pool awaited her, with a pool of cooler water next to it, and probably a cold one next to that, set up like a Roman bath, like home and she was utterly glad to see it. Later, after she ate, she would relax in the hot spring hopefully with wine. They must have wine here; elves and wine were never very far apart.

 

There were translucent white curtains between the carved stone pillars allowing light and breeze in while providing her privacy. Zaile slipped her nightgown off, stepped into the hot spring and then washed herself thoroughly with the herbal soap. Someone had already washed the blood and filth off of her, she wasn't truly dirty, but she just felt better after a bath. After she washed her hair and body, she moved to the lukewarm pool and slipped beneath the surface. A great gust of wind blew one of the curtains up into the air and she saw Elladan looking toward her bedroom, his face thoughtful. As if he sensed her regard, he turned towards her and espying her head above the edge of the bath blushed fiercely.

 

Zaile cocked a brow and smirked at his obvious discomfort—she was almost completely hidden so, really, what was the big deal that he was blushing like that? As the curtains drifted back down she saw him turn and stride towards the building—it was too big to be called a house exactly. After a moment a female elf came hurriedly into the bathing chamber and started apologizing profusely,

 

“My lady, I, these chambers have not been used in some time and I fear I failed to properly secure the privacy curtains when I prepared them. I beg your pardon.”

 

Zaile smiled, “It's ok, no one saw anything. When the curtain blew aside I was well hidden by the edge of the bath. Please, be at peace.”

 

“Thank the Valar. Lord Elladan was most displeased.”

 

“Elladan will get over it, and I'm perfectly fine.”

 

She watched as the female secured the one curtain and checked the rest. With a small bow, she left Zaile alone again.

 

She'd thought it was just Thranduil's kingdom, but it looked like this whole world was ridiculously conservative. At least it was equal, the males as modestly dressed as the females, but tiresome. She'd left most of her elven clothes behind, so she'd probably have to wear her modern clothing and outrage another group of elves. Well, at least it would be clean and she could hopefully buy some appropriate clothes here or pay to have some made. She realized she was putting off meeting this new group of strangers, well, mostly strangers, and got out of the bath, the intricate mosaics of the floor cool beneath her feet. After she dried herself and donned the provided robe she padded back to her bedroom to dress.

 

Oh, someone had left clothes for her as she bathed, and made the bed as well. Shoes, undergarments, oh, and a robe. Pretty too, all in shades of green except the linen under garments. The dress was pale green and made of layers of a sort of filmy material like silk, slightly lighter than her eyes, and gathered at her shoulders to fall softly to her ankles. The sleeves were long, but quite translucent, a single layer of the thin material that belled out. The robe was a deep green velvet, perhaps a bit warm for right now but perfect if the evening grew cool. The shoes were pale gray leather embroidered with silver, slightly too large as was the gown too long but she could fix that.

 

Concentrating, she fitted the garments to herself perfectly then used more magic to weave her still damp hair into one of her favorite braid designs by Lileal, a complicated updo that left a portion of her hair free to flow down her back but exposed the sides of her neck. After a quick look in the mirror, she decided that it was good enough and left to face the day.

 

* * *

 

Badhor was relieved to see her awaken, especially so quickly, but grieved to realize how deep her opposition to return. _**Not for anything,**_ she said, and her face showed an utter firmness. Still, he very much thought he saw her look for the king, and disappointment flash through her eyes when she did not find him. There was yet love there, and he hoped to speak with her and relay what truly happened.

 

Elladan harbored a fondness for Zaile beyond friendship, he was nigh certain of it. It was a tense meeting when first they arrived at the edges of Imladris, Elladan himself meeting them along with a troop of armed guards. Oh, assuredly they were polite, but it was utterly clear they suspected them. None mentioned Zaile, but it was not difficult to ascertain the reason for the less than warm welcome. Only after Badhor sent the rest of the rangers back to the Greenwood would they warily escort him to Lord Elrond.

 

That conversation had been an exercise in evasion, with Badhor repeatedly stating he felt the king should speak for himself, and that he and his rangers' only goal had been to ensure the Lady Zaile's safety. Finally, with some frustration, Elrond agreed to let him stay and relayed to him Zaile's condition. Badhor explained to Lord Elrond that she slept when she vastly overused her magic, but that the condition of Spade her cat reflected the severity of the overuse. Since the cat was awake, she would reawaken herself in no more than a couple of weeks. Then, he sent word to Thranduil via Garc.

 

She slept the first day after his arrival, and given the sheer amount of teasing Elrohir directed at his brother over dinner, Elladan left her side only to eat and practice. Today, after she awoke, Elladan complained bitterly that they did not wait for his return from practice before awakening her. Based on the exchanged glances of his brother and sister, Elladan was not wont to aid in healing of that sort either. Then there was some sort of confrontation involving the preparation of Zaile's chambers. It was quite clear Elladan was unusually invested in the well being of Zaile, and equally clear from his siblings' teasing they considered it likely he was fond of her. That Elladan denied such motives only seemed to cement them in his siblings' minds.

 

That his family, particularly Lord Elrond, approved Zaile added a layer of further complication. All here were glad to receive her, she would face no questions regarding her Noldor heritage, no suspicion or rejection, and Imladris was a safe and beautiful realm under no immediate darkness.

 

Badhor could well see the appeal of peaceful Imladris, and of Elladan himself. The ellon was exceedingly attractive, and far more approachable, far less haughty and certainly less difficult than the king. His lineage was equally noble, he was younger, a warrior of renown, a scholar, and perhaps most appealing of all had never been married. With a sigh, Badhor considered notifying Thranduil that he had a fellow suitor, but decided he would wait to see the lady's disposition towards Elladan. Mayhap she would find no appeal in him, or perhaps Elladan would lose interest himself. The brothers were known to flirt then withdraw, but this seemed more serious than a simple flirtation.

 

Currently, Badhor lingered in the common area closest to her rooms, the one she would be most likely to cross whence she finished her preparations. Elladan lingered as well, and Badhor had the sense the ellon did so to ensure her safety from him. Noble, but unnecessary, and it gave Badhor a further idea of the lady's disposition—Elladan had never treated him so before and thus it must be related to the lady's concerns over Thranduil. It was all so tiresomely complicated and Badhor longed for home and his husband.

 

Elladan's face gave notice of her arrival, filled with wonder and no little desire. Badhor turned to look, and he thought the lady immeasurably fair in her green gown. Someone had taken the effort to select clothing sure to present the lady to great advantage, Arwen he would guess. So, Elladan's sister saw his interest and approved it, perhaps? Or was it hospitality to an honored guest to array her as well as possible? He could not be certain of the intent but the effect was all too visible in Elladan's face.

 

Before Elladan could greet her, Badhor spoke, “Lady Zaile, might I speak with you a moment?”

 

She looked at him coolly, then her face softened, “Badhor, yes, though could we talk over food? I really am absolutely starving.”

 

“Of course,” he offered her his arm and she took it with a raised eyebrow, Elladan giving him an annoyed glance—he clearly had planned to escort the lady himself. Badhor felt satisfied to stymie him in even this small way, and hoped the Valar would give him the wit and words to convey the truth of the king's regard for her.

 

He led her to where a small feast had been laid out, then turned to Elladan and bowed, “Thank you for accompanying us, Lord Elladan.”

 

“Do you think to dismiss me from my own home, Badhor?” Elladan said with a frown.

 

“No, my lord, but I would ask your indulgence to speak with the Lady Zaile alone.”

 

Elladan looked to Zaile who nodded, then turned on his heel and left, clearly displeased.

 

When Badhor looked back to Zaile, she was busy eating already, “Badhor, have you tried this bread? It's really delicious.”

 

Glad he was to see her well and eating, and it was so different from how he thought this conversation might go that he smiled, “Yes, my lady, I have on occasion.” Regardless of her feelings toward the king, she seemed to remain well disposed toward himself—perhaps she might hear him, perhaps he might sway her.

 

They ate together quietly, Badhor waiting until her hunger was somewhat sated to speak. After a short time, she looked up, sighed and said, “Ok, Badhor, I can't imagine what you could say that would change my mind, but shoot.”

 

“My lady, the king did not order Bronon to deny you entrance, he took it upon himself to do so. The royal quarters await your return, and the king considers the courting pledge to remain unbroken.”

 

Her eyes widened, and she looked away, “Badhor, look, I'm not welcome there. Well, not by the Sindar anyways, at least some of them. They laughed when I was turned away, well one laughed and the others gossiped, I, it was awful. And Bronon, the king did not, he may not have told him to turn me away but he, his actions, I did not think I was welcome there either. Lileal convinced me I was, that was the only reason I returned to the royal quarters. Badhor, I don't know why he wants me to return but it isn't for love. If you'd seen his face, he, he doesn't love me anymore,” she paused and then added quietly, “I think he and the other Sindar can't help but punish me for Maglor's actions, they're just too angry and bitter to do anything else. I don't even blame them, but I can't go back there.”

 

Badhor looked down. There was some truth to her words, yes, but it was not all the truth. “Lady, at first the king thought you taken by the enchanted river, that you ran into it as you fled exhausted in the night and were swept away. He searched, all the rangers did naught but search for you, day and night, and the king was silent, unsleeping, ever fearful of your loss. The halls were silent as all grieved, thinking you dead as all signs of your passage disappeared at the point you crossed the river. Orcs attacked the halls soon after you fled, and when nothing of you or Spade was recovered from the river, all then feared you taken by orcs. The king was overcome with grief anew and sent rangers to search for you, not to force you back but to help you if you had been taken prisoner and to escort you safely if you had not,” he looked directly in her eyes, asked the Valar to give him wisdom and said, “Lady Zaile, he is not an easy male, though once he was a merry king. My lady, indeed he loves you yet, I swear it, and seems much chastened by your loss as do the rest of the Sindar.”

 

He saw in her face that his words moved her, but then she seemed to think better of it, her eyes dropping as she said with a sigh, “I don't know what to think. When I left I was so desperately unhappy, so lonely, and here I have family—Lord Elrond is my cousin's step-son and there may be others. I, I think I will rest here for a time. There are questions about my family I need answered.” She paused and then added, “I don't know, Badhor, I just don't think I'm what he wants and the Sindar, some of them truly don't like me. If you had been there, seen some of their faces, seen _**his**_ face on the day of the battle, I, I think if I came back that they would remember again why they wanted me gone in the first place.” ”

 

“None wanted you gone, lady. Perhaps because so few ever leave, it seems to me they did not consider the possibility you would do so when they behaved as they did. They regret their part in your hurt; I tell you, they are much chastened, the king as well. And the Silvan mourn greatly that the Lady of the Greenwood has fled. All hope for your return.”

 

She looked away and Badhor felt frustrated that she seemed unable to truly hear him.

 

Finally, she stood and said, “I'll stay here for a while and see what happens. I, I'm sorry Badhor, but I think this is what I need to do.” She smiled ruefully, sort of shrugged and walked past him toward where Elladan waited.

 

“Do you yet love him, lady?” It was bold, perhaps too bold of him to ask, but he wished to see her reaction.

 

Pausing, she said quietly, “I do.” Then she suddenly, impulsively, turned to him and blurted, “Badhor, if you had a daughter, would you want her to go back? To people who treated her like that? Would you want that?”

 

It was Badhor's turn to look away in discomfort, “I have no daughter, Lady Zaile.”

 

“Right. That's what I thought. I'll see you later, Badhor,”

 

Badhor watched as she left, saw Elladan join her and offer his arm. She hesitated, then laid her soft hand upon his arm and Badhor very much thought his king would be wise to make haste to Imladris.

 

* * *

 

Thranduil waited impatiently at the appointed time for Garc to arrive. Once Badhor related to him that Zaile was injured by orcs on the way to Imladris, pulled from some foul cave unconscious, he immediately sought to journey there. Upon notifying the hastily convened council of his intent, and once the initial uproar died down, his son agreed to rule in his absence and to oversee the hunt for Smeagol only if he listened to the council's advice and waited the two days it would take to properly prepare for the journey as opposed to mounting his elk and riding directly there. After a heated exchange, which culminated in his son stating, “It will be of no benefit to her or the realm if you die en route, father. I have journeyed these lands recently, and they are far more dangerous than any time in my memory. If you love me, love her, and love your people, relent and allow scouts to prepare the way for you, for your caravan to travel in some safety and some decorum as befitting a king.”

 

He'd stormed from the council chamber, refused to give answer, but he waited. On the morning of the next day, word came from Badhor that Zaile remained asleep but well, Spade showing no signs of ill health. Regardless, he would leave as soon as possible, his concern what occurred in that cave to so injure her. Perhaps she had been tortured, his mind considered the many horrors of the Enemy and Zaile so innocent, so young and full of light. Should it dim he would know it to be his fault, that he drove her from safety.

 

And there the raven was, his dark wings outlined against a gray storm cloud laden sky as he winged down to land on the perch made for he and his fellow messengers.

 

“Letter, my king,” Garc croaked.

 

“Thank you, Garc, faithful and true,” Thranduil replied gracefully as he removed the harness and then waved the raven away. Likely Badhor considered the message too long or too complicated to be certain of Garc's accuracy in relating it, and thus a letter. Thranduil thought to open it immediately, then decided the privacy of his study would be preferred. Slipping the cylinder into his robe, he strode quickly to his study, opened the cylinder and began to read.

 

_Greetings to Thranduil Opherion, King of the Greenwood, from Badhor of the Royal Guard,_

 

_My king, the Lady Zaile has awakened. Upon her awakening, I related to the Lady Zaile Bronon's actions, that the king considered the courtship unbroken and that the royal quarters and the king awaited her return. She expressed her belief that neither the king nor the Sindar truly wished for her return, and stated that on the day of her refusal at least one of the Sindar of the upper halls laughed at her and that there was much gossip regarding her in her presence. She believes that the Sindar and the king will not forgive her connection to Maglor, and is convinced that the king does not love her. She referenced the day of the battle as the source of her belief that the king no longer cared for her and believes Bronon's actions were inspired by the king's demeanor towards her, as well as the demeanor of the Sindar in general._

 

_I was so bold as to relay that the king loved her, that he and the entire kingdom grieved when they thought her lost or taken by orcs, and that all regretted the actions that led to her leaving. She stated that she believes that the king does indeed wish her return, but she remains convinced that it is not for love and that the king and the Sindar will soon regret her return and remember the cause of their dislike for her—Maglor--and return to despising her. She is utterly firm in this belief, my king._

 

_She stated she left because she was lonely and desperately unhappy, my king, and sought Imladris because she thinks it offers answers regarding her family. She did not refuse to return, but rather said she would stay in Imladris for a time and, “see what happens.” It was perhaps too bold of me, but I asked the Lady Zaile if she yet loved the king and she replied, “I do.”_

 

_However, Lord Elladan evinces far more than a passing interest in the Lady Zaile and she is favored by his brother, sister, and father. The Lady Zaile seems unaware of Lord Elladan's interest, and remains subdued in manner as one who has suffered a great loss._

 

_Your servant,_

_Badhor_

 

Long Thranduil sat and thought, and ill did his thoughts sit with him. Late in the day, Legolas joined him, poured himself a flagon of wine and sprawled out in the adjoining chair, his long legs stretched out before the fire.

 

“Your caravan will be ready early on the morrow, father.”

 

Thranduil gazed into the fire yet a moment longer, then turned to his son, “I shall remain. The Lady Zaile has awoken and chooses to abide for a time in Imladris.”

 

Legolas looked upon his father in surprise, then spied the letter crumpled on his desk, “Will she return?”

 

“I know not.”

 

They lapsed into silence, then Legolas said, “Long has it been since you left this realm, since you gazed upon Imladris and spoke with those within.”

 

“You would have me go? In defiance of the council's _**urgent**_ advice?”

 

“I would see your heart merry, father, as I have heard it often was with the Lady Zaile.”

 

Thranduil paused, then said, “And what of her heart? Perhaps Imladris might suit her better.”

 

“Will you not give her the choice?”

 

Thranduil stood, paced over to the balcony to gaze out upon his lands, the sun falling over the trees toward night, his hands clasped tightly behind his back, “I am ill suited for one so young. I have known this since the beginning. I do now what I had not the self control to do when in her presence.”

 

“I have heard she was merry with you as well, father, and chose you willingly.”

 

“Ah, but is that all you heard, my son?”

 

There was a pause, then, “No.”

 

“No, indeed. It is better I remain. For the kingdom and for her. War is fast approaching, and Imladris is a peaceful well protected land. Long have I focused on my duty, as befits a king. I shall do so again.”

 

“Write to her, father.”

 

“To what purpose? Shall I send her tender words of love? No. I will not.”

 

“Would you have her hear the truth solely from Badhor? She deserves the truth from your hand if not your lips.”

 

“Perhaps.”

 

Legolas shook his head, dismayed by his father's choice, “If you are certain, I will disband the caravan.”

 

“I am.”

 

With a nod of no little annoyance, Legolas stood and made his way out to undo two days worth of work. First he notified the guard, then the rangers, the kitchens, the stable--preparing the king to travel swiftly but safely was no small endeavor. None were pleased at the king's decision, not at all. While they agreed to disband the caravan, there was a decided lack of the urgency that had attended the preparation of the caravan. It very much seemed as if the people intended to disband the caravan so slowly the king would have no choice but to get the clear message they wanted him to _**take**_ the caravan. Legolas was quietly amused, but doubted the ploy would work.

 

As he walked back to his quarters, he reflected on the situation. There was approval, especially among the common people, of the king wooing Zaile back. To be sure, they were fond of her; but Legolas suspected that pragmatism played a role as well. A wizard strong enough to regrow limbs, to call down storms, to help push back the darkness of Dol Guldur, there seemed a quiet consensus among them that the king should win her back for the good of the kingdom as much as his own love for her. The rangers and soldiers especially--they spoke often of how her magic yet protected portions of the Greenwood.

 

Some had had feared her, or rather feared what she might do if angered given her connection to the sons of Feanor, but that fear left with the manner of her leaving. The gist of the gossip was that no offense could possibly be worse than to be denied _**publicly**_ by the king's guard, and yet she had taken no vengeance, said not even a single harsh word, but gave what she had of value to see the kingdom fortified for war. Then she had simply left, taking nothing with her but clothes suitable for travel. Took no recompense and left the kingdom safer than it had been before her arrival. Whatever her lineage, she had naught in common with any wrathful son of vengeful Feanor save her skill in making.

 

No, there was no longer fear but instead a deep regret that they had spurned one who might have eased not just the king but their own lives. Shame, there was deep shame on the part of the Sindar especially. Many now considered the possibility the Valar had heeded their calls for help and sent them one like to Galadriel in power to assist them, but they foolishly drove her away. That the Silvan blamed the Sindar for her loss, and made their displeasure evident in many small inconveniences, did not help.

 

Legolas found some of the tales of her power frankly unbelievable, and yet he had walked the mountains she cleansed and they felt as Imladris or Lorien, clean, new, free from the exhaustion of time. Arneth told him of her arm and she did not exaggerate, the opposite normally. That his father met, wooed and won, then managed to so thoroughly offend a being of such power did not surprise him. Charming, when he wished to be, his father could and did manipulate others with consummate skill. His temper, though, and his pride and sharp tongue...Legolas sighed. He loved his father, knew him to be a great warrior and a good king, but he could be cruel, especially when his temper was inflamed.

 

Tauriel, for example. His father had been right—she did not love him. A dwarf, she had loved a _**dwarf.**_ Even his own father saw the reality of that bizarre choice in the end. Gratitude perhaps should be what he felt for avoiding his father's fate, to be the spouse of one who liked but did not love him. Perhaps he might feel gratitude if his father had not been so blunt, so cruel in his actions and his words. Tauriel forgave his father, saw the wisdom of his actions, or at least she claimed to do so, and surely his father had honored and empowered her as ambassador to the dwarves.

 

Still, Tauriel's words, that his father had no love in him, Legolas had not precisely agreed with her, but neither had he disagreed, especially regarding romantic love. Between his father and his mother had been a coldness, a distance that Legolas long laid at his father's door. If not for Mithrandir, he would still believe his father to blame for the distance between his parents. It had grieved him deeply to learn of her deception and her refusal to return, but it explained much concerning his father. Still, he had not thought his father capable of romantic love, that he desired such love. Flirtation, yes, his father was disturbingly aware of his attractiveness and not at all loath to use it to his advantage. He'd seen his father flirt and tease, but to any who knew him it was clear he had no true interest beyond a moment's amusement or some advantage to his kingdom.

 

This Zaile though, it was obvious to all the intensity of his father's grief at her loss. Quiet, nigh on silent, his father retained passion regarding the safety of his people but little else mattered to him. He rarely drank wine, ate little, engaged in none of his former avocations, cared little for the state of his robes or hair. Oh, he was well dressed and groomed, but it was due to his valet's concern and not his father's. There were no longer any sharp words, few words at all in fact. Duty, aside from the love his father had for him, duty seemed all that remained. It was as if some light within his father had burnt brighter in her presence and now dimmed lower than before. Should this continue he feared his father would fall deeper into sorrow and the weariness of this world than even after his mother died and refused to return.

 

His father should go to Imladris, Legolas was certain of it. But he would not listen. Ever it was so when he was certain his course was the dutiful, the proper thing to do. Perhaps Legolas might be able to sway him eventually, but would the maiden await him that long? He knew not the fullness of her disposition. He knew her not at all. Honestly, he knew not how he felt concerning his father courting _**any**_ another. That he wished to see him merry and content, yes, of course he wished that for his father. He had heard from many that his father radiated a quiet joy and was merry as few remembered seeing him...when he was not in passionate conflict with the lady. Some of the tales little sounded like his father at all. Her age, _**sixty**_ , that was...it could not be right. Though she was peredhel, but still, _**sixty**_? It was as unbelievable as the rest.

 

His thoughts on it mattered not. His father would not go and the lady did not seem disposed to return. On the morrow he would rouse his father early to practice with him, anything to help him to cease brooding in his study, and the exercise and fresh air would hopefully benefit his mood. Legolas dismissed the situation from his mind, settled in to his favorite chair and began to read. After a time, he fell into reverie and left behind the cares of this world.

 

Early in the morning, he sent word to his father and received his agreement to meet him for practice immediately after breakfast. Legolas arrived first, surprisingly, and as first to enter the ring chose knives—his best weapons aside from the bow and his father's least favorite. Rarely had he bested him at knives, but they at least offered the possibility of victory. While the sword? Nay, he had never seen any the equal of his father in the use of the sword. They would begin with knives, then next his father would choose swords, and finally they would practice with the bow, the one area he surpassed his father.

 

Legolas looked up to see his father enter the ring, matching twin blades held lightly in his hands. Both were stripped to the waist, mid-July in the Greenwood was hot and somewhat humid. His father nodded and they began.

 

“First blood?” Legolas said.

 

“As you wish.” Thranduil replied, his voice evincing none of his usual joy in their sparring.

 

First blood meant first to nick the other in an area that would cause death. Dangerous, but Legolas considered it more likely to rouse his father from the torpor of his regret. To barely prick an opponent, a mere drop of blood, took more skill that to avoid cutting the skin at all. Only the most skilled would attempt it, as he and his father did on occasion.

 

Back and forth, no banter, his father silent and grim but slower than usual, his strikes less creative. Legolas could win this bout easily in minutes. Perhaps if he did his father might be roused to wrath—anything would be better than this quiet sorrow. He swung, then darted in to nick his father in the belly but prior to drawing blood found himself flung through the air across the clearing. Dazed, he looked over at his father to find him armored in what looked like stars, tiny brilliant pinpoints of light that hovered a few inches above him and seemed strung together with very thin vines of fire, earth, and water.

 

“Legolas!” His father rushed to him, knelt next to him but Legolas held up a hand warning him away—he knew not what that armor would do should he touch it.

 

“Father, I am well. Merely surprised.”

 

Beneath, he could see his father's worried face and then the armor, if armor it was, began to fade towards his father's neck. Legolas felt warmth, good wishes, _**love.**_ Whatever this was, it was made of love and the natural elements, strong magic wove them together—he'd never seen the like. As he watched, the necklace his father ever wore reformed until it once again appeared to be naught but a beautiful piece of adornment. His father hung his head, the fall of his hair hiding his face, then he stood and left the practice field without a word.

 

Legolas followed, striding after his father as he made for the royal quarters. Once they were within it's confines he said, “Her necklace. I felt it too, father.”

 

Back to him, his father said nothing.

 

“Your caravan is yet ready. The people wish you to go to her, as do I. Father...

 

“Very well,” his father's interrupted, his voice strained, silhouette tense, “I shall depart. Tell Galion to prepare my personal things while I bathe. I will wear the light armor for travel.”

 

With that, his father strode toward his chambers.

 

* * *

 

 

Imladris was beautiful, peaceful, the people welcoming. The very air itself seemed full of life, there was laughter and song everywhere and an ease that reminded her of her largely peaceful home. She considered it had been a very long time indeed since this realm had seen war or any sort of major attack, and it showed on the faces of many of the residents. There was not the tension, the vigilance of Thranduil's realm and she felt herself begin to relax.

 

Elladan spent the day guiding her throughout the complex of buildings, introducing her to all they met. These people were friendly, open, apparently well used to travelers and seemed not at all suspicious of them. She was surprised to see what appeared to be Sindar and Noldor living and working together happily as friends and even a few humans in the mix. This was a vastly different place than the Greenwood, and she wondered at the cause for the difference. Geography, perhaps? This valley was strategically defensible, though the Halls were as well. Magic, that was different—here the very air was thick with it. Both Lord Elrond and Glorfindal felt as if they had magic more powerful than Thranduil's, Elrond especially. It would be interesting to speak with them concerning magic, assuming this place was as friendly as it seemed.

 

Currently, Elladan led her to dinner in the Hall of Fire, an event that sounded like a cross between an open mic night and a giant buffet. She was definitely game for that, at least to watch. It would be a good distraction from her thoughts.

 

“Might you have a song or poem of your land you are willing to share, Zaile?”

 

“Tonight I would prefer to listen, Elladan, if it would not be rude to do so.”

 

Elladan paused and turned to her, “Zaile, let your heart be at rest. You are not obliged to do ought here but what you wish. Rest then, and let the weariness and sorrow of your journey ease. I would see you merry, my lady.”

 

“I'll be fine. I'm just a bit tired from my journey,” Lie. She continued to think about what Badhor told her, that Bronon had acted on his own. That Thranduil loved her, grieved for her. It was easier when she was certain he rejected her, but now she found herself second guessing her decision, and it made the longing for him worse.

 

Elladan's eyes were filled with compassion for her, and he stroked her hair almost as if he were an older brother, “So strong, I look forward to beginning our promised training on the morrow,”

 

At that she smiled, “I'll kick your ass, see if I don't,”

 

He looked at her quizzically, “Is this some saying of your land? Or an actual fighting move?”

 

Laughing, she said, “It's a saying. Basically, I'm promising to defeat you.”

 

He raised his brows, “We shall see, then. If I win, I will claim a prize from you.”

 

“Deal. As long as the same goes for me.”

 

He gave her a courtly bow and then offered her his arm again as they approached the hall, “Of course. I am nothing if not fair.”

 

Together they entered the Hall of Fire, bonfires burning brightly, singing and laughter ringing and she was again reminded of home.

 

“Zaile, come, feast with us!” Elrohir called out and indicated a space at their table.

 

Zaile sat, Elladan sat next to her and she ate quietly, listening to the talk. Arwen was there, a dark haired human male, Lord Elrond, Glorfindal, and a few other elves she didn't recognize. Her table mates respected her silence, thankfully, and she relaxed and ate her fill of the varied dishes, all delicious. All seemed merry and carefree, with much joking and plenty of plain silliness.

 

After she ate, she watched and listened for a time, Elladan leaning over to point out this person or that, or to explain the point of some song or another. He seemed to not mind that she had little to say beyond some variation of, “Oh, really,” or “That's interesting,” and the room had grown so loud conversation would be difficult anyway. Everyone was having a great time, half the room was completely drunk and the rest were certainly enjoying their wine, but she had no heart for it and felt more the outsider than before.

 

A minstrel struck up a new song and in the momentary lull she stood and said, “Thank you for your hospitality, but I think I will retire for the night.”

 

“I will escort you back, Zaile,” Elladan stood and offered her his arm.

 

“Thank you, I think I know the way but I am not certain. I won't need a guide much longer, I promise,” with a smile she laid her hand on his arm and felt glad to have made a friend.

 

“Oh, I am sure my brother will be glad to lead you anywhere you wish, Lady Zaile,” Elrohir said with a laugh. He was more than a little drunk, his face flushed and his eyes twinkling with mischief.

 

“Well, Lord Elrohir, at least your brother can still stand. Can you?” Zaile snapped back without thinking.

 

Delighted laughter rolled over the table, and teasing as Elrohir tried, and failed, to stand.

 

As Elladan led her forth, she heard Arwen laughingly say, “This bout goes to Zaile, Elrohir.”

 

The night was cool, and so she pulled her robe around herself more tightly.

 

“You feel the cold more too, then? More than a full elf?” Elladan asked curiously.

 

“I guess so. Most of my people are what you call peredhel, part elf and part something else. The really old ones are all full elves, but each generation after them is less likely to be full elves. I never really thought that much about the differences until I came here.”

 

“A realm of mostly peredhel? Few of our people would choose a mortal.”

 

“Oh, no, I don't think anyone is part mortal, at least not that I've heard of. No, most of our people are a mix of elf and witch, elf and valkyrie, or elf and fey.. There's a few other kinds, but those three are the most common, probably because we have a colony of witches in our realm, Maglor is married to a valkyrie, and elves look a lot like the fey so the fey find us attractive and vice versa. Like I said, I didn't really think about it much until I came here, it was just normal.”

 

“There are other immortals where you hail from?” Elladan looked at her in surprise, “Not just long lived like the Edain, but like us?”

 

“Lots of immortal races. Some look basically human, like the witches, but others are far from human looking. There's a lot of realms, more than you can imagine.”

 

Elladan was quiet for a moment, then said, “Here, to be peredhel, it is considered a strange thing. We are few, and whenever there is a joining between elf and man, it is the subject of much talk, much pity.”

 

“Because they are mortal?”

 

“Partly, but I think that is not all of it. Elves...we consider ourselves more advanced than Men. It is true, for the most part, especially now that the strength of Men has far diminished.”

 

“It's different in our realm. After coming here, I'm pretty sure Maglor and the rest of the old ones encouraged full elves to choose other immortals so they could acquire the healing abilities of the other races. If an elf lacks the ability to fully heal, they still encourage them to not choose another elf or peredhel. I thought it was some BS discrimination against the Afflicted—the ones who can't heal normally—but after coming here I think that all the old ones lack the ability to heal and just keep it hidden.”

 

“They heal like mortals?”

 

“No, they heal like you. Or like I think you do. Do you heal instantaneously from injuries?”

 

“Of course not.”

 

“I do.”

 

They reached the building her quarters were in and Elladan led her inside and to the open central area that led to private quarters.

 

“Instantaneously?” His voice reflected skepticism.

 

“Do you have a knife?”

 

Elladan removed a small knife from his tunic and handed it to her hilt first.

 

“Ok, don't freak out.”

 

“I know not what that means, Zaile.”

 

“Stay calm, please.”

 

He nodded, and she drew the blade across her hand. No sooner did blood well than the cut closed and the blood reabsorbed into her skin.

 

“Magic? But I sensed none,” he looked up from her hand in wonder.

 

“No, it's just part of me. All, well nearly all immortals heal like this in my realm. We're nearly impossible to kill.”

 

Elladan's eyes widened, and he looked down at her, took her hand in his and then kissed her palm, “How stalwart you are. But no more demonstrations, my lady.”

 

“It doesn't hurt, it's fine,” she said laughingly, “You don't need to kiss it better.”

 

“Kiss it better? Do kisses have some healing property in your realm?”

 

“No, no, it's an old saying. If a child falls and gets hurt the parent will kiss the injury to comfort the child.”

 

“What an odd custom. No, I was not kissing it better, Zaile,” he stepped closer, carded his hand through her hair, “I do not see you as a child.”

 

Zaile smiled, “I figured not. I doubt you spar with children!” Stepping back, she said, “I look forward to our long promised training tomorrow.”

 

Elladan seemed almost disappointed and slightly frustrated for some reason, but he bowed and said, “Of course. Training begins after breakfast, before the day becomes too hot. I will send word to awaken you, if you would like?”

 

“Yes, please! I'll need to eat beforehand. Thank you, Elladan, for helping me, for making me feel welcome. You and your brother, your family, you've been really kind to me.”

 

Elladan smiled warmly, annoyance gone, and said, “It is my pleasure, Zaile. I hope you will find Imladris so to your liking that you make your home here.” Then he bowed and said, “Good night, my lady.”

 

“Good night, Elladan. Sleep well.”

 

 


End file.
